


Never Speak Nor Sing

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, First Age, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Dangerous topic w/satisfying end, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Economics, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2006-11-14
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Lauron-Nama', part (one).  Early in the First Age, Glorfindel arrives in Fingolfin's court at Eithel Sirion with one purpose in mind: to find his father.</p>
<p>Adult rating has been applied  for dark themes and non-graphic slash.</p>
<p>Winner, 2004 Galvorn Awards: 1st place for "Worst Character Assasination"!</p>
<p>Nominee, 2007-8 Pushuruk Awards: Most Offensive Portrayal of a Canon Character (all).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vanya

"And he is very young," said Celeiros. "He did not say his age, but I would guess he has only just reached the majority, if that. And his situation is strange. Why would one so young come to us from Valinórë, and why at this time? I cannot make sense of it."  
  
Fingolfin, who had been kneeling silently on the floor among his plants, slowly stood. He tossed the handful of dead, yellow leaves into the pots to rot, and made an effort to nod at what Celeiros said, though he only half paid attention. "You think he does come from Aman, then?" he asked, stepping forward before kneeling again.  
  
"I cannot find any evidence to the contrary," Celeiros answered. "There does not appear to be a single flaw in any of his claims."  
  
"However?"  
  
"However, my lord, as I said before, it is a strange tale he tells. His story makes factual sense, but logically it is absurd. I can understand _how_ he is here, but not _why_."  
  
"Ah," said Fingolfin. He stood again and tossed down a second handful of leaves. After a moment, suddenly aware that Celeiros awaited further words, he asked, "What reason does he give for his presence?"  
  
Celeiros frowned. "He says his mother is Noldë. She remained behind with her Vanyarin husband, but he was moved by the valour of her people and has therefore elected to join them rather than sit idle in Valmar while they suffer at the hands of 'Moringotho'. Not in those exact words, of course, but that is what I gathered from him after you left the salon. He crossed the sea in a Noldorin ship last year, and travelled north up the coast with that other young man, the dark one, who enlisted as a soldier this morning. The Vanya claims they are distant cousins. Now this I might stoop to believe, even though he calls himself Vanyo and has no strong familiarity with Noldorin culture or even language. But what troubles me most is that I have no sense whatsoever of what he intends to _do_ here. He has neither weapon nor armour, owns nothing aside from his clothing and a few trinkets, and has no known family. Therefore I am wary that he expects you to employ him somehow. Though in what capacity, I do not know. I suspect he will think himself above common duties."  
  
Fingolfin remained absently staring down at the plants. "He is too young for anything else," he said at last. He bent over to pick another yellow leaf. "But it is a shame. There is that look and bearing about him that is too grand for the light-boys and table attendants. Like an orchid in an onion patch. Hand me my knife, will you?"  
  
Celeiros grabbed the small knife from a nearby table. Fingolfin took it and shook his head as he knelt beside the jade tree. "I honestly do not know what to do about this," he murmured.  
  
Celeiros frowned again. "Which, the Vanya or the plant?"  
  
"My jade tree," said Fingolfin. He cut a few small branches and dropped them into the pot. "See, the leaves are turning reddish all on this one side. Do you think it might be the sun?"  
  
"Possibly. I'll have someone turn it and we'll see if it doesn't improve."  
  
"Good." Fingolfin stood again. "I think the best thing for now would be to simply put him in a room overnight, and I will think for a time on a solution."  
  
"You are referring to the Vanya now?"  
  
"Yes, of course," said Fingolfin, glancing upward for the first time. "What is his name again?"  
  
"Laurefindil, if you would believe it," said Celeiros.  
  
Fingolfin nodded. "Laurefindil, yes." He paused, pursing his lips together and tapping the knife against his palm. "I wonder..."  
  
"Yes, my lord?"  
  
"I suppose," he said, "that I could always have him as my personal retainer."  
  
"And the Sindarin boy?"  
  
"He is not a worry; we can put him to fire duty or otherwise."  
  
"Of course, my lord," said Celeiros. "I do think it may be wise to have this Laurefindil of Valmar, however dubious his history, replace that local orphan for so intimate a position in your household. You know, I was never entirely certain why you chose such a one in the first place, rather than promote-"  
  
A sharp look from Fingolfin cut Celeiros' speech short. He flushed pink, and lowered his eyes humbly. "Though," he continued more quietly, "the decision was most gracious and charitable on your part, my lord, considering the boy's poor situation."  
  
"It is good that you think so, Alkarrossë," said Fingolfin. He went to the table and set down his knife before turning back. "Where is he now?"  
  
"Your Sindarin boy?"  
  
"And our Laurefindil."  
  
"Your Laurefindil is in the salon still, where we left him," said Celeiros. "The Sinda, I would think, is likely in the garden or the stairwell near your bedroom as usual. Should I find him?"  
  
Fingolfin shook his head. "No. I would have you take our Vanya to our seamstress to be fitted for court clothing. Send Armion after the boy and have him assign the new duties: whatever he sees fit."  
  
"Yes, my lord." Celeiros bowed before turning to leave, and was near the door before he was interrupted by Fingolfin's voice.  
  
"Alkarrossë..."  
  
Celeiros stopped and looked back to the king with a curious glance. "Yes, my lord?"  
  
Fingolfin's eyes had narrowed in new thought and his lips pursed strangely. "It just occurred to me," he said, "that a different action may be better. I think that you should not send Armion after all; leave that matter for now. And take our new Laurefindil not to the sewing girl but to a good room where he might rest. When that is done, come to me in my library and I will have prepared a letter that I would have you take in person to my son. Is this understood?"  
  
Bowing once more, Celeiros nodded. "Yes, my lord," he said, and then he left.  
  
~   
  
Glorfindel followed Celeiros across the great Hall from Fingolfin's salon, to the stairwell that led up into the tower itself: Barad Eithel. The air was smoky from too many torches and too few windows, and the vaulted stone ceilings, though not yet twenty years old, were already stained black. The floor had been recently scrubbed clean, but traces of ash still hid in small crevices along the base of the wall. Everything smelled of stone, and dead and dying wood.  
  
Up they went, following a narrow and steep spiral staircase with thin steps under smooth walls, winding around a pillar no more than eight inches thick. While Celeiros walked confidently and without thought, tracing the pathway he had surely taken countless times before, Glorfindel stayed consciously close to the diameter where the steps were widest, but kept his left hand held out to brush the pillar for balance as he moved. There were no stairways at Amma's house, and no stairways this perilously narrow anywhere in Valmar that Glorfindel could remember. It made him uneasy.  
  
On the third floor, halfway down a wide, vaulted corridor, Celeiros stopped. "This will be your room for now," he said, and he pushed open a soot-marked wooden door. He did not step inside, but motioned for Glorfindel to do so.  
  
The room, Glorfindel saw, was small, though the ceilings were high enough that he could have scarcely touched them had he been twice his height. Along the left wall stood a narrow bed, and at the foot of that, an iron-bound chest for clothing. Next to the chest was a simple wooden chair with a canvas cushion. Along the right wall were a table and a series of shelves for any personal items, and a fireplace. The far wall facing the door curved slightly with the shape of the tower. This wall was bare and uninterrupted save by one shuttered window, which permitted a few spines of white light into the otherwise shadowed room. Dust hovered in the rays above a patterned blue and grey rug.  
  
"Here," said Celeiros, "you may keep this for now." He set the lamp he had been carrying onto the table. "Someone will be along soon to light the fire and bring you food and drink. I or another will come for you later, but I do not know how long that will be. So please, rest a while. I am sure you are weary from travel."  
  
"Yes," Glorfindel said. "Thank-you."  
  
Celeiros nodded before leaving and shutting the door behind him. Then Glorfindel was left alone in the dim stone room.  
  
He stood by the door for a long while feeling hollow and small, lost in the vastness of Barad Eithel among hundreds of rooms lining strangely curved corridors, all with high ceilings and oppressively thick walls. In Valmar, with Amma, he had lived in a house that was only one room. There had been a corner for sleeping, one for eating, one for work, and one for rest. At night, Amma had brought the wooden bath basin in from outside and set it by the fire behind a large paper screen, creating the temporary privacy of a wash room. But otherwise there was only the one room, and there was only ever Amma with him.  
  
Now it made his stomach twist to think of Amma, as if he were starving. Such a strange and horrible feeling, he though. He put his hand at his waist and slid it over the fabric of his belt but it did nothing to satiate the pain in his body.   
  
He longed for Amma. He ached for the warm comfort of her embrace and the soothing melody of her voice, her hands stroking his hair and her kind smile that held such love for him above all others. He wondered then if Amma felt this terrible loss without him, though he hoped she was not in such misery. But she at least had grandmother and grandfather there with her across the sea, and her sisters.  Glorfindel had only himself.  
  
After a long time he forced himself to move from the door, reasoning half-heartedly that if this was to be his home, he would feel less alone once he had put out his things in the room and made it more his own. He set his pack of belongings onto the bed, which was straw-filled and covered with patterned patch-quilts like his bed in Valmar. One by one he laid out the few pieces of clothing and the precious items of jewellery Amma had given him. The jewellery he wrapped carefully in a handkerchief and hid under the straw mattress. The clothing went into the wooden chest. He then set his comb, hair ties, soap, and copper knife onto the table beside Celeiros' lamp.  
  
The window on the curved wall, visited next, faced south. It held no glass to guard against the wind and cold: only wooden shutters. Amma's house in Valmar, Glorfindel thought, at least had glass in one of the windows. The other windows were covered in thin linen that Amma had soaked in oil, but one window at least had four small squares of real glass that Amma had been given as payment for her beadwork.  
  
Outside and far below that window, at the level of the first floor, was a wall. Beyond it, a road passed through a field of low hills spotted with aspen bluffs. Glorfindel leaned as far as he could out of the narrow window, just squeezing his shoulders past the shutters, and from there he could see that the tower was built along the south-east corner of the city wall. If he strained to look eastward he could see the edges of small wooden houses and fences built along outside the wall. Not far beyond them, where the trees grew denser and lined the horizon with a swath of green, was the river Sirion that came down from its mountain spring just northwest of the city. If he looked the other way, he could see the mountains, the Ered Wethrin.  
  
There was no movement on the walls or roads or anywhere that Glorfindel could see around the south-east edge of Eithel Sirion. Only the sparrows singing carelessly in the aspens and the kestrels circling the grassy fields in search of mice offered any proof that the world still lived. Glorfindel watched them until one of the birds dove mercilessly at the earth; he turned his eyes away and did not watch the kill. A cold wind blew out of the west, down from the mountains, and he, suddenly exhausted, closed the shutters and returned to the bed in pale lamplight.  
  
He lay there wearing his good clothes for only a short moment before he thought that he probably ought to put on a bedshirt.  
  
~   
  
It was nearly dark by the time Celeiros came back. The sun at this time of year seemed hesitant to set over the northern lands, making summer days long and slow. But though the last vestiges of sunset still branded the sky, it was late, and Glorfindel was tired. He had changed out of his good clothes and lay sleeping when Celeiros opened the door.  
  
"Get up," Celeiros said, "and dress. I will wait in the corridor while you do, so hurry. I am taking you to my lord Findekáno."  
  
Glorfindel nodded as Celeiros left, and sat up in the bed. But he kept the quilts pulled around his shoulders. Earlier, a boy had come and set a fire, but this had died with the day. Now only a few tired red embers remained to give little heat or light to the cold, dark room, and Celeiros' lamp had faded long ago. Glorfindel could only half see the chair in the corner where he had carefully set his clothes. The glass beads on the robe sleeve caught the light of small fire-sparks and reflected dark orange as tiny failing stars. The fabric was black and hard. Everything looked strange here.  
  
The lightest of the quilts still hung over his shoulders as he stepped out of bed, careful to reach his bare feet to the rug at the bedside to avoid shocking his skin on the colder, uncovered parts of the floor. He stepped into his shoes before fetching the rest of his outfit from the chair and hurriedly pulling it on. Before he left the room to join Celeiros he ran his comb through his hair to smooth it over his shoulders. Then he shut the door behind him, and wished it had a lock. He didn't trust his things, though few, alone in that black room.  
  
"You are quick," Celeiros said with a thin smile. "It is a good talent. My lord will be pleased, I would think."  
  
Glorfindel only smiled weakly.  
  
Celeiros turned to start away, and motioned for Glorfindel to follow. "Now come," he said, "and follow me; we go to Findekáno. Though I might warn you that he is in a foul mood tonight, so do not take it too hard if he is less than kind. And there is a chance that he will refuse you entirely; he has in fact refused the last four retainers our King arranged for him. But we must try. And he has this time returned to us in the tower, so there is hope I think."  
  
"He was away?" Glorfindel asked. He did not blame the Prince for wanting to flee this place.  
  
Celeiros gave an ironic snort. "Our King and his son have been on icy terms for the past eleven years due to a disagreement on a matter of... personal tastes. I am certain many members of this household will be more than pleased to relate to you the full story in great detail. But I will not, at least not now, though I will tell you that nine years ago, Findekáno refused his father's rule and left the tower. Since then, he has been living by his "uncle" Calantáro, who is in fact his mother's first-cousin. He is good friends with his second-cousins Calarindo and Lailaniel, who are Calantáro's children."  
  
When they reached the staircase, Celeiros paused and turned to face Glorfindel as if to express a confidence. "But Findekáno has returned to us tonight," he said. "He is upstairs in his old bedroom. And our King is set on keeping him there, in hope that they might be reconciled. However, Findekáno refuses to see his father. He has returned to his house, but will speak to none save me, and now you as well. So you must understand that your position is not only one of service, but also you act as an emissary. If Findekáno is pleased with you as his servant, the situation between him and his father will be eased. Do you understand?"  
  
Glorfindel nodded. "Yes, of course. I will do my best."  
  
"Good," said Celeiros, and they started up the stairs.  
  
The fifth floor of Barad Eithel was much like the third, though fewer doors lined the sooty corridor and a greater number of torches burned on the blank walls. Celeiros stopped at the second door on the right side and knocked gently. After a moment the door opened. Quiet words were exchanged. Glorfindel looked to the floor and waited, trying to calm himself and be patient though his body shook. He clenched his teeth to still their chattering.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Further down the corridor a boy with pale yellow hair had come round the curved wall. He stopped at one of the doors, stood still a moment, then leaned against the wall opposite. He reached into his pocket to pull out something, a piece of candy perhaps, and popped it into his mouth. He did not look at Glorfindel or Celeiros.  
  
While Glorfindel watched the boy, the door to Fingon's bedroom shut. Celeiros turned back with an uncertain look. "Our lord Findekáno is considering," he said. "I will leave now, as I must have a word with our King. But I would have you stay here and wait. I do not suspect Findekáno will be too long, since-" Celeiros lowered his voice to scarcely more than a murmur- "I dare say he is well known for his impulsive and often poorly-thought-out decision-making process."  
  
Glorfindel gave a small smile as Celeiros smirked, though the brief moment of camaraderie did little to lighten his dark heart. And any light that was shed died quickly when Celeiros raised again his walls of formality, face growing stern once more. He took a step back toward the stairway. "I hope for the best," Celeiros said.  
  
"I too," Glorfindel quietly replied. He watched with a feeling of heaviness as Celeiros quickly turned and hurried down the stairs. Then he was left alone and uncertain.  
  
Or almost alone. Behind him he heard the boy pace a few steps, deliberately loud as he walked back and forth. After a moment the pacing stopped.  
  
"Nach ant an Fingon i ernil danten?"  
  
Glorfindel turned sharply to look at the boy while still working to translate his foreign words. _'Nach', you are... 'ant', a gate? No, a giver? A gift... You are a gift for Findekáno, the 'ernil'... the lord... or the prince? I do not know the word 'danten'..._  
  
He scowled as the boy grinned at him, feeling a sudden and welcome surge of anger at the teasing words. As his face grew hot his fear diminished, and as he forgot the fear he felt less alone. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "And no-one else is here to listen to you, so you might as well just shut up and mind yourself. I have important work to do." He narrowed his eyes and raised his chin.  
  
The boy only shrugged and continued pacing, saying nothing further.   
  
"Moriquendu," Glorfindel muttered. He leaned back against the stones. Fingon's door was still shut, and no sound came from beyond it. The wintery chill of fear sank back into his body.

* * *

_Moriquendu - (Q) Dark Elf_


	2. Story Notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Note on Notes:  
  
I am not a fan of author's notes. I very rarely write them, and do not expect people to read them. The notes below may be of interest to some, but not all. If you do not wish to read the entirety of my ramblings, look only at these two points:  
  
1) The story follows a composite of Silmarillion canon, HoME, ideas that Tolkien abandoned, and other aspects that are entirely made up by me to fill in areas that Tolkien never touched.  I do not call the story a true AU (though I know most people will), but it is certainly not canon in the way that Tolkien presented it.  The world is notably darker than what is presented in the Silmarillion.  This is Arda Very Marred.

2) I use both (North) Sindarin and Quenya/Quendya words and phrases in this story. Wherever relevant, they are translated at the bottom of the chapter. Both Sindarin and Quenya versions of character names are used as well. For an explanation on how/why/when Elvish words are used, see the "Note on Languages" below. For a table of Sindarin-Quenya name equivalents, see "Note on Names".  
  
Note on Story:  
  
As mentioned above, this is a darkly themed story. The setting is bleak, and the characters are grumpy, quarrelsome, spiteful, cruel, arrogant, and a variety of other unpleasant adjectives besides. OOC? Perhaps, and I know some readers will think so. But the Elves of the Silmarillion did lie, steal, fight, discriminate, kidnap, covet, attempt rape, betray, murder, and so on. And in Tolkien's early drafts, they were far worse.  At this point in their history, they were not the wise and kind beings represented in LotR. They were young, angry, and irrational. In LotR, Elrond is approximately 6500 years old and has gained more life experience and knowledge than one can imagine. In this story, Fingon is in his late 200s and has lived the majority of his life in trouble-free Valinor. A favourable comparison of their behaviour is impossible.  
  
Characters aside, the more canonical aspects of this story follow a patchwork of ideas from both Silmarillion and HoME. Here, Fingolfin's sister did not go with him into exile. Finrod did marry Amárië in Valinor. The timeline for crossing the Helcaraxë has been condensed. Most importantly, Glorfindel of Gondolin is not the same person as the Glorfindel of Rivendell (as Rúmil of Tirion and Rúmil of Lórien are not the same person). One day, I will write an essay outlining exactly why I believe there are two distinct Glorfindels, but for now I will leave it here: as far as this story goes, they are two separate characters. This is the story of Glorfindel of Rivendell in the First Age.  
  
Glorfindel is forty-three when the story begins. This places him at the approximate size and emotional maturity of a human sixteen-year-old.  
  
Note on Languages:  
  
Elvish languages are used here in a few specific situations. Mainly, to differentiate between the speaking of Sindarin and Quenya. Because this story focuses predominantly on Quenya speakers at the beginning of the First Age, the "understood" language of speech through most of the story is Quenya. Occasionally, while characters are understood to be speaking Quenya, something will be said in Sindarin. In this case, actual Sindarin is used, and will be translated at the end of the chapter or in the story text. The rule also goes for the reverse situation, where Sindarin is the understood language and Quenya words need to be emphasised.  
  
Elvish words also appear in cases where there is no English equivalent (words like "Silmaril"), or where the word is being used as a replacement for a proper name (Glorfindel calls his mother "Amma", because as far as he is concerned, this is her name).  
  
Finally, they appear as place names or cultural/racial names. Fingon, speaking Quenya, would say "Hisilómë" rather than the Sindarin "Hithlum". Oropher says "Golodhren" rather than "Noldorin". Here is a table for those unfamiliar with the Quenya-Sindarin equivalents:  
  
QUENYA                              NORTH SINDARIN  
Noldo/Noldor/Noldorin        Golodh/Golodhrim/Golodhren  
Sinda/Sindar/Sindarin         Thindel/Thindrim/Thindren  
Eldarin                                Edhelren (this is what the Sindar call their language: Elvish)  
Vanya/Vanyar                     Miniel/Mínil  
Teleri/Telerin                       Telerrim/Telerren  
Hisilómë                              Hithlum  
Lestanórë                           Doriath                            

I have specified North Sindarin here because it differs slightly from the regular dialect, most obviously in consonant clusters. North Sindarin words such as "minto" and "edhelren" become "minno" and "edhellen" in Third Age Sindarin. Even the name "Glorfindel" is much more easily considered North Sindarin; regularly, "Glorfinnel" would make more sense. Luckily, "Glorfindel" fits perfectly into the timeframe and location of this story.  
  
On top of the North Sindarin, Glorfindel also speaks a different dialect of Quenya. His Vanyarin speech (properly called Quendya) has a few slight differences from the Noldorin variety. It contains the sounds TH and Z where Noldorin Quenya does not, and uses the letter D diferently. Where Fingon would say "Sindarin" and "Teleri", Glorfindel would say "Thindarin" and "Telezi".  
  
All Elvish translations and inventions were done by me, which means I get to claim full responsibility for any errors.  
  
Note on Names:  
  
As with the words and places, names are used according to which language is understood as spoken, but (for the most part) only in dialogue. Through most of the narrative, the more common Sindarin versions are used. Quick reference table, including OCs:  
  
SINDARIN                QUENYA  
Glorfindel                 Laurefindil  
Fingon                     Findekáno  
Fingolfin                  (Finwë) Nolofinwë  
Finrod                      Findaráto  
Maedhros                Maitimo  
Fëanor                    Fëanáro  
Turgon                    Turukáno  
Oropher                  Oroferno  
Celeiros                  Alkarrossë  
Galadrin                  Calarindo  
                 
Other names (Anairë, Artanis, Amárië, etc.) are only ever given in one language.


	3. Prince

"Asleep already? Night has only just fallen."  
  
At the sound of the voice, Glorfindel's head snapped up. "My lord Findekáno," he whispered. Immediately he scrambled to stand, pulling himself up from the floor where he had crouched for a moment of rest. "I was only sitting for..." He stopped, silenced by a cold shame. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep. He glanced down the corridor seeking any indication of the time, but there were no windows. He saw though that the Sindarin boy had gone.  
  
Fingon's lips curved in a wry smile. "Hmm," he said, and nothing more. But he looked at Glorfindel with eyes shining even in the dim torchlight of the tower, watching in silence. And Glorfindel, finding no courage to speak further, could only gaze back at him.  
  
Fingon took closely after his father in appearance. He was less beautiful than Fingolfin, though only in that his features were sharper; his nose was longer and straighter and his mouth was thinner, rendering him less kind-looking. But still the resemblance was plain to see. Fingolfin's face echoed clearly in that of his son, with the same bright grey eyes and proud bearing. Black hair, thick and unplaited, fell to Fingon's waist in damp tangles, some strands catching in the nap of his house robe. Beneath the robe he wore only loose breeches, and only leather slippers covered his feet. Glorfindel supposed he had been bathing. The scent of orange-oil hung thick about him.  
  
After a moment Fingon turned and stepped back to retreat into his bedroom. He held the door open. "Come in, then," he said. Glorfindel obeyed wordlessly, arms clenched stiffly at his sides.  
  
The room was bare. Aside from the snapping fire and Fingon's travelling cloak thrown carelessly across a cushioned bench, there was no indication at all that anyone lived there. Three stout candles stood on a table beside the bed, burning near unspoiled as if new. The bed itself stood with canopy curtains pulled back and tied in perfect symmetry. Quilts lay spread wrinkle-free and smooth as glass.  
  
Fingon waited a moment, taking time to glance out into the corridor before shutting the door. With no lamp- or torchlight to brighten the night, the room was dark and small. It was scarcely larger than Glorfindel's own bedroom downstairs, which made him frown. Always he had imagined the nobility to live in grand, if not wasteful, splendour. And here was the bedroom of a prince, no better than that of a servant. There was no gold here, no silver, no gemstones, and no tapestries. A carpet lay on the floor between the bed and the hearth, but it was plain and black. The bed was wide, but fashioned from pale wood rather than ornamented metal; the blankets were thick, but sewn of linen and wool rather than silk.  
  
Curious, Glorfindel glanced to the window, but the curtain was drawn. He wondered if it at least hid panes of real glass.  
  
"There is a bath in the next room," said Fingon, who had moved closer to the failing fire. He nodded toward an internal door at Glorfindel's right side. "If you care to use it, the water is still warm, and a full kettle heats over the fire. Alkarrossë told me that you just arrived this morning, coming up from the south. In this case, I think it might do you well to relax a moment in the water and allow it to wash away the dust of travel. I do know I was thankful for a bath tonight, though I have only come from across the city."  
  
Glorfindel self-consciously ran his hands down the fabric of his sleeves, and the thin layer of dust stuck to his fingers. Amma would be upset if she were ever to see these good clothes in such a condition; perhaps Fingon was no less upset to have a servant so poorly-kept. A bath would do him well, though self-consciousness at the idea of bathing with Fingon so near twinged in the back of his mind. He glanced to the door and then back to Fingon. "A bath would be good, my lord, thank-you."  
  
Fingon only turned his back and stared down at the fire. Still though Glorfindel remembered to bow before opening the door, heavy and solid as all the doors in the tower, and stepping into the adjoining room.  
  
This room, which Glorfindel guessed was used for dressing as well as bathing, was larger than the bedroom but equally sombre. Two tall wooden wardrobes stood side by side along one wall, their doors hanging sadly open to show empty shelves and space. To the left of them was a large bare table with drawers. A bathtub of iron stood near the far wall close to the fire, and beside it lay Fingon's discarded travelling clothes and shoes. Glorfindel, pleased with himself for thinking to do so, carefully set Fingon's shoes together along the wall and folded the garments onto the table before pulling off his own clothing and laying it neatly on the floor.  
  
The bathtub was rough black iron on the outside, though the inside was enamelled smooth grey that shone in the firelight. The water was warm to Glorfindel's hand, but not hot. Carefully, he took the blackened kettle from its hook above the fire and poured the boiling water into the bath. Then he stepped in, slowly so as not to slip on the slick enamel, and let the hot water cover his naked body protectively. It was almost a comfort. Water was the same in Eithel Sirion as it was in Valmar, after all.  
  
A little bar of hard soap, scented with pine oil, sat in a metal dish that hung from the side of the tub. Next to it was a glass bottle of pine-scented liquid soap that poured slippery and green into Glorfindel's hand. Amma's softsoap had been unscented and yellow, but still it was the same soap for the same purpose. Glorfindel rubbed it between his hands before lifting it to his damp hair. Then, when his hair squeaked clean and dust-free, he used the hard soap to wash the dirt of roads and fields from his skin.  
  
When he had finished bathing, he picked up Fingon's bath sheet from where it lay in a sad crumple on the floor, still damp from Fingon's use. He shivered as he hurried to dry himself before dressing again, either from the cold or a strange fear; he was unsure. But his hands shook terribly as he fastened his buttons and roughly plaited his hair, tucking it under the muslin lining of his tunic to keep it from water-marking the fine outer fabric.  
  
Fingon, still dressed in only his robe and breeches, lay on his back on the bed when Glorfindel returned. "Was the water hot enough?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," said Glorfindel. "Thank-you."  
  
"Good," Fingon said, and he sat up at the bed's edge. "But you have dressed again in your good things; I should have had Alkarrossë bring a robe for you."  
  
Glorfindel shook his head. "No, thank-you, my lord, I am fine as I am. It is no worry."  
  
Standing, Fingon shrugged. "As you will. There is a comb if you wish to fix your hair." He gestured to the table, though his eyes remained still on Glorfindel. "However I do think you ought to have a bath-robe; the water will ruin your fair raiment. Here," he said, pulling the robe from his own shoulders. "You should wear mine."  
  
"Ah no," Glorfindel said, and he blushed as he bowed his head in servitude. "I should not, could never... It would be impolite, to take that from you."  
  
Fingon only grinned. "It is also impolite to refuse." He held out the robe toward Glorfindel. "Take it."  
  
Hesitantly, Glorfindel took the robe with his shaking hand. It was black velveteen, plain and unadorned but still richly heavy, and hung like a great weight from his arm. Was it right, he wondered, to be so familiar with Fingon, son of the High King, to accept this offering and let the prince do without? When Celeiros had told him of his position, he had thought it might be like his chores for Amma: cleaning, tidying, making fires, bringing food, and doing whatever else was asked of him, and that Fingon as master would retain his royal distance. But now undressed, Fingon looked no different, no grander than any of the Noldor that had crossed the sea on Cirgon's ship. He stood straight and tall and proud, but so had they. He was stripped of his fine black decoration and he was the same as the commoners.  
  
The unexpected act of familiarity and intimacy made Glorfindel tense in an uncertain shudder. He looked up from the robe in his hand to Fingon before him. "Why do you do this?" he asked quietly. "Am I not your servant?"  
  
"Everyone in this city is my servant," said Fingon, "save my father only. They must answer to me, and follow my rule. It is boring. I have thousands of servants and very few friends. So I suppose you can guess which I don't need more of?"  
  
"But I thought... Alkarrossë said that..." Glorfindel gave his head a quick shake to clear the frustration. _It is not right_ ; he thought, _he is not a true prince to act this way_...  
  
Fingon placed a hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy. "Alkarrossë is a halfwit who says whatever he thinks my father would want him to say. Ta thinks I need a servant, and so Alkarrossë says that I do. Now true, you will be a servant by title and I might ask you to bring my clothes of a morning and such, but all lower tasks will be left to others. You should be more of a..." He paused.  
  
With growing unease, Glorfindel glanced to Fingon's face and was met by strange eyes, grown darker though still as bright, and grey, but gleaming a red and gold mimicry of the fire. He looked quickly back down to avoid their glare, and he tensed. Fingon's free hand brushed over the line of his cheek. Then his lips tingled under the touch, then his chin. His face was tilted upward. He closed his eyes against Fingon's frightening stare and breathed with a graceless roughness. A moment later Fingon's lips lightly passed where the hand had marked, and he could taste Fingon's breath within his own.  
  
"You are shaking," Fingon said. His hands squeezed Glorfindel's shoulders to still him. "Are you afraid?"  
  
"I don't know," whispered Glorfindel. But he shook more at Fingon's touch, and the knot in his stomach wound tighter. He pulled back as far as he dared and as far as Fingon's grip allowed.  
  
Fingon gave a dry laugh, letting him step away. "You should be more of a companion," he said, finishing his earlier thought. "A friend. Is it understood?"  
  
Glorfindel slowly nodded, only scarcely moving his head.  
  
"Good. Friend." Smiling, Fingon lifted the robe from Glorfindel's hand and draped it around his shoulders. It hung heavy as chains. Glorfindel bowed his head in a silent courtesy of forced appreciation. Then he turned to the small dressing table and took up a silver comb, running it through his hair with a deliberate lethargy in dread of having to turn around again to face Fingon's scouring gaze.  
  
"It has just occurred to me," Fingon eventually said, "that we have not had a proper introduction. Would you forgive my poor behaviour?"  
  
Glorfindel turned back to face him. "Of course," he said quietly.  
  
Holding out his hand, Fingon grinned. "Then I am Findekáno Aresto, son of Finwë Nolofinwë Ingoldo, High King of the Noldor."  
  
Glorfindel awkwardly stooped to kiss the silver ring on Fingon's middle finger. "I am Laurefindil, son of-" he paused, but only for a moment before he thought of his grandfather's name and continued with only a small flaw in his speech- "son of Vidirwë of Valmar."  
  
"And what is your father Vindirwë's station?"  
  
Something hazily troubling, a voice from the near past still remembered but not clearly, sang a quiet warning.  
  
 _Admit never that thou art the son of a commoner. The Noldor prize kinship as well as they do treasures, and if thou be the son of a lord they will love thee, but if thou be the grandson of a papercrafter they will hold thee in little worth..._  
  
Amma's cautionary words hovered in his mind to still the truth, and Glorfindel looked to the floor as he lied to his prince. "He is a... he teaches music."  
  
In Valmar, when Glorfindel had been a small child, Amma's sister Aldamizdë had defied culture and tradition to marry two castes above her station. Her husband was a music teacher to the children of lords, named Elindyo, and he lived at the centre of the city where houses were tall and white with vine-draped balconies and silver-domed roofs. Glorfindel had been to Elindyo's house once with Amma when he was thirteen years old. He had seen the green-carpeted floors and yellow- and orange-tiled walls, and a shelf of thin gilded leather folders full of pages of songs.  
  
Elindyo had let him eat clams brought from Alqualondë, and candied plums. Then Glorfindel sat, wearing his best clothes that Amma had made, slowly realising that the plain cloth of his best wasn't good enough even to cover the seats of chairs in Elindyo's house. In that moment he finally understood the great barrier of difference between him and Amma and the lords of the city. He had quietly asked her, as they walked back to their own small wooden house, if he would ever live in such a place. But Amma had said no; when he was old enough, he would be apprenticed to his grandfather and learn to make paper. He would marry the daughter of a family that grandfather knew, and live in a small house on a narrow street and have naught to do with the higher sorts of Elves unless it were for an order of goods.  
  
It was those of Elindyo's caste who became the retainers and confidantes to princes, the ones who found themselves on close terms with the highest citizens of Valmar and Taniquetil, while one from Glorfindel's level would consider himself lucky to have a position washing floors in that same household. It should be Aldamizdë's son, not Amma's, to stand now tense and unsure in Fingon's unsettling room. That was the law.  
  
And so, Glorfindel repeated; "He is a music teacher to the children of the lords of Valmar."  
  
"How fortunate," Fingon said as he walked to the fire. "It is better, I know, to be born the son of a vocationer than the son of a mere peasant. Privilege, education, trinkets, fine clothing..." he glanced to Glorfindel with a thin smile. "You have naturally had them all, as readily as I?"  
  
Glorfindel forced a smile in return, willing himself with every shred of strength to maintain his calm look while behind his back his hands wrung in bloodless twists. "Yes," he said in a voice less sure than he liked.  
  
"You see, Laurefindil, the majority of those who show up in my father's hall seeking positions- in fact all that I have known- have been orphans or the sons of poor families in search of a better life in the service of the King, trying to escape their born place. You though come as the son of a good family, willing to trade your own life of luxury to facilitate mine."  
  
As he spoke, Fingon knelt down on the hearth and pushed aside the linked-wire spark shield. He reached to grasp the protruding end of a well-charred stick, pulling it out from the fire. The tip glowed dull red but quickly faded to black once away from the heat.  
  
"It is a welcome reversal," Fingon finished, standing again with the stick still in his hand.  
  
"Ah," said Glorfindel, "it was... my mother's idea..." His voice trailed off as Fingon waved a hand and dismissed the excuse. But watching Fingon walk toward him, he was unsure of whether to be relieved or terrified.  
  
"There is no need for explanation," said Fingon. "I'm sure everything will be revealed to me soon enough. Now take this-" he handed the stick to Glorfindel- "but be careful not to touch the charred end; it is still hot."  
  
Glorfindel looked at him with curious eyes. "For what?"  
  
"I would have you write your name," Fingon said.  
  
"My name?"  
  
Fingon nodded, motioning to the floor. "Yes. On the stones."  
  
"But that will..." Glorfindel frowned.  
  
"I will have someone clean it tomorrow; that is no worry. But for now, there is no other place to write but on the stones. I have no paper here. So if you please?"  
  
He gave Glorfindel an expectant look, then motioned to the floor again. Glorfindel hesitated as his mind spun, trying to guess the intent behind Fingon's strange request. But still he took up the charred stick, sinking slowly to his knees, and clumsily scratched out in uneven powdery black the tengwar of his name, as his grandfather had taught him: rómen, silmë, ando, and the accompanying tehtar:

Fingon stood closely by, bending over his shoulder to read. "Now that is an interesting spelling of 'Laurefindil'," Fingon said with his smug voice.

Glorfindel paled at the recognition of his mistake, his body shivering colder with a new wash of uncertain fear. But he said nothing, and clutched the stick tighter in his hand as if it might offer any help.

"You intrigue me, Vanya," Fingon continued. "Now write my name."

Again Glorfindel poised the stick ready, but paused as a sudden realisation fell upon him. He closed his eyes, seeing at last Fingon's game, which was now lost. He did not know how to make an F.

"It is not a difficult name," said Fingon, close to mocking. "Findekáno: four letters only. Less than Laurefindil. Go ahead."

But Glorfindel could only set the stick beside him on the floor with a soft tap.

Fingon was silent for several terrible long seconds before saying, "Stand" Glorfindel did, though he kept his eyes turned down in shame.

"You cannot write, can you?" Fingon asked in a low voice. "Nor read?"

Glorfindel shook his head weakly.

"How odd for the son of a good family to be so sadly illiterate." Fingon took Glorfindel's chin in his hand, less gently than before, and brought them eye to eye. "You are no lord, boy. Not even merchant-class. Why did you lie?"

"I meant no offence," he whispered, and he shook violently.

"You lied to me, and to my father also," said Fingon. "And lying to the King is an evil deed for certain. He could have you whipped."

Clenching his teeth, Glorfindel tried to look away, anywhere other than at Fingon's hard face and sharp grey eyes, but Fingon still held him firmly under the chin and refused him any movement. And so he screwed his eyes shut, desperate for any small escape.

"Are you afraid now?" Fingon asked.

"Yes," he choked.

"Then it is a lucky chance I will not tell my father."

Glorfindel's eyes flew open as Fingon's grip eased. "What?"

Fingon shrugged. "He could not notice your deception. You were not afraid of lying to him, and so he did not notice. Though you were afraid of lying to me, and I saw it plainly. If he could not tell false from true himself, there is no need for me to tell. It will do me no good in any case; I will be out a retainer, and I am fond of you so far."

Relaxing, but only the smallest amount, Glorfindel looked to Fingon with wordless confusion. Fingon's expression softened as he raised his hand from Glorfindel's chin to his cheek.

"It is nice to have someone who at least speaks my own language," he explained. "Most of those who came with us from Valinórë are soldiers now, or counsellors or merchants, leaving only those horrid Sindar that Ta keeps trying to force upon me for servants. And I honestly do not think I could live with their ugly words and simple minds assailing me all day. So it is good that you are here." He smiled sadly. "Even if you are a commoner, you're still better than one of them."

"Oh," said Glorfindel. Unsure of what else to do, he forced a small smile. "I... Thank-you."

Fingon nodded. "In any case-" he stepped away to pace as he spoke- "I won't expect you to know Sindarin or speak it at all with me, as it is an awkward and difficult language to learn for one just come from the West. Far more awkward, in my mind, than Quenya, so it always amazes me that so few of the savages are ever willing to learn our much more pleasant speech. I must attribute that to the fact that they are all halfwits. But have you learned any of their language?"

"Yes, though just a small bit. I have been trying to learn this past year."

"Hm," said Fingon. "Well I suppose that can't be helped. We're surrounded by it." He turned back to Glorfindel. "How old are you?"

"I... forty-three." Glorfindel smiled nervously, then cringed at his lord's frown. He had thought to enhance his age, but as his hands still shook from Fingon's muted wrath at his earlier deception he had no further desire to lie.

"Alkarrossë said you were older," Fingon said. "Did you tell him otherwise?"

"No," Glorfindel answered truthfully. "He did not ask my age, nor did your father the King."

"Hm," Fingon said again. He sat down on the edge of his bed with a low sigh and gestured to the empty air beside him. "Come, sit with me."

Glorfindel hesitated, trying to read anything of Fingon's mood before going to him, but his face offered no clues. He sat blindly.

"Forty-three," Fingon said, laughing softly to himself. "You are still a child, really."

Glorfindel said nothing in reply.

"But very beautiful," Fingon continued. He took one of Glorfindel's tense hands in his own and lifted it to his lips, pressing small kisses over the fingers and knuckles. The feeling of his touch stuck hot like a brand.

Glorfindel stiffened and his breath caught in his throat. He stared at Fingon in shock, the current of fear inside him suddenly raging. Fingon's intentions grew disturbingly clear.

"Sit nearer," said Fingon, but Glorfindel did not. Instead he stood, pulling his hand away with a sharp tug.

"I must do my work," he sad. His breath was short and his stomach wound tight, but he managed the words out of necessity. "There are things to do and I must..." He glanced around for any desperate excuse. "Your cloak is not put away. Here, I will put it away. It must hang in the closet in the other room. I will-"

"The cloak is no matter," interrupted Fingon. He grabbed Glorfindel by the wrist and pulled him back down. "For now I would like you to sit."

"Yes of course," Glorfindel whispered. He sat too close to Fingon, so close that the heat of Fingon's bare chest and arms flowed against him. He felt nauseous. "But my lord I think I will be unwell," he said as he covered his stomach with his free hand. He choked back the sickly bitter taste in his throat.

Fingon pulled the black robe from Glorfindel's shoulders and let it slide to the floor. "You will be fine. You are just hot. Here, I will help."

In truth Glorfindel's skin burned, but it burned hotter when there was less of a barrier between it and Fingon's touch. Fingon's hands seemed to make the small buttons of his clothing dissolve, and the fabric itself parted and fell away like dust until there was nothing left between them. Then the searing hard touch was everywhere. Glorfindel's shoulders and arms, his chest and stomach, his back and neck, all became known. He did not realise he was shaking until Fingon told him so.

"Are you frightened?" Fingon asked. "Or only cold now?"

"I do not know," he choked, and for a moment he did not. He was cold, and hot, and his head pounded while his mind felt as if it were wrapped in cobwebs that barred him from reality. In some unsettling way he was sure that he should be dreaming this scene, but the more unsettling certainties assured him that he lacked the safeties of a dream. "I am cold," he somehow said, a plea to avoid dangerous silence.

Fingon smiled, touching his hair. "You must lie down then." He turned back the quilts and lowered Glorfindel's shivering body to the bed. Glorfindel shied away to hide his face in the pillow, soft and smothering with its feathers. He curled his knees up closer to his chest as Fingon pulled the blankets over him. They were smothering as the pillow. One could suffocate in this bed. But Glorfindel lay still, so still that he thought he might turn invisible, or that Fingon would forget he was there. Then he could return to his own bed, where he should be, and tell himself that he had only imagined this dark night.

After a minute of silence he felt the mattress lift as Fingon stood. He heard the rustles and slips of fabrics, thick sounds sliding around him, and after another minute had passed he felt a weight again as Fingon climbed onto the bed. After that there was nothing. Glorfindel heard his own breath, muffled by the pillow, and his heart beating in his ears with the fierceness of a sea storm. But Fingon, marked only as a heavy presence beside him, was strangely silent. Glorfindel dared not move, not even the slightest shift of a hand or foot in fear of Fingon touching or questioning him again. He forced his breathing to soften as much as his body would allow.

Across the room, the fire snapped and hissed as it died, spoiling the quiet with its final gasping sparks. Glorfindel listened until his ears strained to hear, and there was nothing more. His muscles ached from the tension of holding motionless for so long. Half an hour must have passed at least, possibly more. Fingon could be asleep. Tentatively, he stretched out an arm toward the edge of the bed, and his fingers brushed a wall of heavy fabric. He opened his eyes. The curtains around the bed had been drawn, shutting out any possibility of orange light from the fire embers or moonlight from the window. The small space was completely black.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark he could begin to make out vague shadowy shapes, the edge of the pillow against the curtain or his hand before his face, but nothing more. The dark was thick and oppressive, stealing sight and sound and threatening to swallow him. In Valmar, his bed had been beside a window so that he could always sleep within the comfort of the stars. There was no dark this terrible in Valmar. There was nothing that felt so evil in Valmar. Glorfindel slid his face beneath the covers, shielded his mouth and nose and eyes and ears so that only the top of his head was vulnerable to the dark. He bit his lip, and choked on salted tears that accompanied the aching sob rising in his chest. A hand rested lightly on his shoulder, squeezing and stroking over his arm. It would have been a comfort, had it been anyone's hand but Fingon's.


	4. Servant

Glorfindel must have slept, though he could not remember when he fell asleep or recall any dreams. But a thin stripe of blue light glowed at the end of the bed where the curtains met, announcing the morning. He shifted and turned his head as far as he could. He was stiff from lying so still.  
  
Fingon's hand now lay draped across his chest, the arm having moved closer around him sometime during the night. The prince was asleep with his head nearly resting against Glorfindel's neck, his body covered with only one thin knit blanket. Carefully, Glorfindel turned to lie on his back. When Fingon did not stir, he began to move away. As slowly as he could manage and as silently, he slid toward the curtained edge of the bed.  
  
Fingon's eyes flickered as his neutral face took on a slight frown and a small sound passed his lips. Glorfindel froze. He stared at Fingon in eager dread but there was no further movement. Still though he waited several moments before trying to move again. Then he slowly turned onto his stomach so that Fingon's hand fell harmlessly to the mattress.  
  
He slid one leg past the curtain, then the other, his bare feet landing on soft carpet. He pulled himself up until he almost stood, but with hands still leaning on the bed. As he did, the quilts fell away from his back to land across Fingon's arm. Fingon's eyes flickered again and he blinked. Glorfindel held his breath.  
  
Fingon looked up at him with a tired gaze and a small frown. "Where are you going?"  
  
"It is morning," Glorfindel said. "I... I must have things to do."  
  
Fingon snorted as he looked away. "It is dog-early," he said. "Not even the cooks are up at this hour. There is nothing to do yet. Get back into bed and go to sleep."  
  
"I cannot sleep, my lord."  
  
"Then pretend," said Fingon. He shifted to lie with his face in his pillow and pulled the knit blanket up around his shoulders.  
  
Reluctantly, Glorfindel climbed back onto the bed. He sat with his knees tucked under his chin and his hands clasped at his feet, the tension of the previous night quickly returning to his limbs. Fingon moved no further, save the light rise and fall of his back with each breath. Glorfindel sighed. And he waited.  
  
Some time later, when the stripe of light through the bed curtains had changed from blue to bright yellow, he heard a loud knock at the door followed by a cry of "Nôr!" The voice was high-pitched and childlike.  
  
Fingon lifted his head long enough to shout, "Minto!" in reply before he flopped back down.   
  
"Who is that?" Glorfindel asked. He heard the door open and what sounded like two pair of slippered feet shuffle into the room.  
  
"Servants. They make the fire in the morning."  
  
"Oh," said Glorfindel. He listened to their actions through the curtains as they laid quartered logs on top of smaller sticks in the fireplace. "Do I have work to do now?"  
  
"No," Fingon said. He sighed, shifting more onto his stomach. "I will tell you when there is something to do."  
  
"Oh," Glorfindel said quietly. He hugged his knees closer to his chest. Beyond the curtain, he heard the servants shuffle out, leaving a crackling fire behind them.  
  
Half an hour passed, and Fingon still slept. The sounds of the fire slowly diminished to a quiet hiss. Glorfindel lay on his back on the bed, on top of the quilts, looking up at the canopy. He thought of nothing. Kind thoughts of Amma and Valmar always ushered in unwanted thoughts of Fingon and Eithel Sirion, so it was better to not think at all. He only stared at the blue fabric and wished that time would hurry.  
  
Another knock sounded at the door, and another cry, "Bass!" came from another childish voice.  
  
Again, Fingon shouted, "Minto!" He lazily rolled onto his side, facing Glorfindel, and stretched one arm into the air while using the other to prop up his head. He grinned a lopsided smirk. "Alright," he said, "it is now morning."  
  
"Who are they?" Glorfindel asked. Two more pair of slippered feet had entered the room, setting down a clinking tray on the bedside table followed by a heavy sloshing jug.  
  
"They bring breakfast," said Fingon. He sat upright, stretching further. "Now since you're so keen to be useful, you can start by opening the curtains. Tie them back to the bedposts, and do it neatly."  
  
Glorfindel nodded, but waited until the breakfast-bringers had closed the door behind them before leaving the bed. He had no desire to be seen, even though he was certain they had heard him speaking. But after the door clicked shut he gladly stepped out into the room, so bright that he had to squint his eyes against the light after the contrast of the dark bed. Then he took the nearest curtain-edge in his hand and pulled it away, pleating it neatly as he went. He tied it back to the bedpost.  
  
When he had finished the four curtains, Fingon was already sitting on the edge of the bed by the table, reaching to the breakfast tray. "What did you eat for breakfast in Valmar?" he asked.  
  
Glorfindel shrugged. "Pancakes usually, made out of corn or potatoes. With milk. Sometimes bread or fruit."  
  
"Here then," said Fingon. He handed Glorfindel a small golden roll. "You can start with some bread."  
  
Glorfindel took the roll in his hands and broke it in half. The inside was pale and soft like foam. He frowned. Bread in Valmar was rich brown and firm, and much heavier. "What sort of bread is this?" he asked.  
  
"The best sort," said Fingon. He had hollowed out his own bread and was scooping berries with syrup into it.  
  
Tentatively, Glorfindel took a bite. "It tastes like nothing," he said.  
  
Fingon laughed and handed him the berry bowl. "Then put some of these on it. And sit down to eat." He gestured to the bed.  
  
Glorfindel sat. Copying Fingon, he used his finger to poke a hole in the bread and make a little hollow before spooning in the berries. They were sweet and sticky. Syrup spilled out in little drops and stuck to his lips as he ate.  
  
"Is it better like that?" Fingon asked.  
  
"It's very sweet," Glorfindel said. The syrup seemed to coat his mouth all over, and he licked his lips like a cat to get rid of it. "It sticks on my tongue."  
  
"Have this." Fingon handed him a cup of milk, fresh and warm and thick. Glorfindel drank it quickly.  
  
"There are other things that are not so sweet," Fingon said. "You might like the applesauce better." He picked up a small dish filled with pink sauce, which Glorfindel took and tasted. It was sour like new apples.  
  
"I like this one better."  
  
"Good," said Fingon. "And there are other things too here you might like: raisin cake, berries without syrup, almond pastry, cheese pastry, egg bread with seeds..."  
  
Glorfindel looked at the breakfast tray, covered in all these things and even more, two or three of each. Fingon sorted through them and picked out the ones he liked best. "I am fine with this," Glorfindel said, and took another spoon of applesauce. He had no interest in trying any of the strange food Fingon ate.  
  
Soon the two servants who had brought the tray came back to collect it. They were children, Sindarin boys with pale silvery-yellow hair, and Glorfindel guessed their age at about twenty-five. They looked at the ground as they walked, never glancing up at their lord. Glorfindel, still wearing only his breeches from last night, self-consciously ran his hands over his thighs to smooth the wrinkled fabric and bowed his head to allow his hair to fall and cover his bare chest. Fingon, just as naked, simply ignored the boys as they took the tray and hurried out. Then he fell back onto the bed with a contented groan and clapped his hands over his stomach. "I missed all the good food while I was away," he sighed. "By my cousins we only had porridge for breakfast most mornings. Did you get enough to eat?"  
  
"Yes," Glorfindel said. "Thank-you."  
  
"Good." Fingon let out another groan, which turned into a yawn. Glorfindel stole a quick, nervous glance. Fingon's eyes were trained on him, carefully watching every awkward movement. He immediately turned away.  
  
Fingon only laughed, his same haunting laugh from the night before. "You may look at me if you like," he said.  
  
"No," said Glorfindel, shaking his head. "I did not mean to, I only-"  
  
"I do not mind," said Fingon in a low voice. "In fact I would like you to."  
  
Glorfindel only sat still and bit his lip. But after a moment he did turn to look again.  
  
Fingon wore only his breeches as he lay on the bed, unashamedly displaying his body to the cool morning air. He stretched his arms above his head and yawned again, well-toned muscles flexing beneath his skin as he did. His chest and shoulders were broadly masculine, matching strong arms. Fingon was a warrior, well-trained and skilled with a sword, and it showed plainly in his naked body. Glorfindel uncomfortably shrugged his own boyish shoulders and looked back down at his knees. He knew his shape was skinny and childlike compared to Fingon's.  
  
He heard Fingon laugh quietly behind him, and felt a large hand lightly stroke the small of his back where the ends of his hair fell. The hand moved up his spine to his shoulder as Fingon pulled himself into a sitting position once more. "You are still young," Fingon said with a grin, as if answering the question Glorfindel had failed to ask. Then his arms moved quickly to grab Glorfindel in a tight embrace. Before he could speak in protest or even struggle, Fingon leaned forward and kissed him hard on the mouth.   
  
With a strangled shout he quickly pulled away, squirming out of Fingon's grasp and sliding to the corner of the bed. But Fingon followed, moving closer until he had Glorfindel trapped between him and the canopy post. "Why are you so afraid?" he asked. "I will not harm you."  
  
"It is wrong!" Glorfindel hissed. He stared at Fingon with shocked and wild eyes.  
  
Fingon smiled softly. "It is hardly considered wise for the servant to point out a prince's errors," he said. "But still I would like to know what you think is so wrong."  
  
"That," said Glorfindel. "What you did..." He shook his head. "That is wrong. It is only for those people who love each other, those who are married."  
  
"Who taught you that?" Fingon asked.  
  
"My Amma."  
  
Fingon reached up to stroke Glorfindel's cheek, the tips of his fingers winding through strands of golden hair. "Well my ammë taught me otherwise. There are a few things that some think only married folk should do, but kissing is an innocent enough joy." He placed a gentle kiss on the corner of Glorfindel's mouth as if to prove his point. "You don't mind a simple kiss, do you?"  
  
Glorfindel silently lowered his eyes. "It is wrong," he whispered. "It is still wrong. It is an evil doing for two... for us two, if we are both..." Helpless and overwhelmed, he could only stare at his hands and shudder as Fingon pressed further kisses along his cheek to his ear.  
  
"Men?" Fingon finished the sentence for him. "I do not think that is wrong. Why should it be? Because the Valar told us so? They do not know everything. That is why we left Valinórë, is it not?" He shifted himself and turned Glorfindel's face until they were eye to eye.  
  
"Look at the Sindar," he said. "It is no terrible sin among them who never went into the West. True they are savage and stupid, but they do not hold back their desires at least."  
  
Fingon stared at Glorfindel with such a piercing and passionate gaze, almost daring him to speak again, but Glorfindel remained silent. He nervously returned the stare and held Fingon's eyes for several long seconds before quietly speaking. "I will not question your beliefs, my lord, but I must tell you that I believe such things are wrong."  
  
Carefully, he shrugged away from Fingon's touch and turned his head aside. Fingon stiffened and pulled back, but kept his eyes locked on Glorfindel. There was a long and tense pause before either spoke another word.  
  
"You truly think that way," said Fingon.  
  
Glorfindel slowly nodded.  
  
"Then I will not force you do to anything you do not want to do, Laurefindil."  
  
Glorfindel looked over at him. "I do not want-"  
  
"However," Fingon interrupted, "you must remember that you have sworn an oath of fealty to my father, and that refusing my order bears punishment under our law. So I ask you to think very carefully about what it is you want to do." He spoke the last words carefully, punctuating them with a sinister emphasis.  
  
And with those words, Glorfindel was chained. He could feel the weight of those simple yet terrible words twine around to catch him in a crushing stranglehold, ready to squeeze away any charade of freedom or morality. There Fingon sat, calmly facing him with a challenging look, while his chest constricted and the breath was choked from his throat. He had no choice, or no real choice. Surrender by will or by force, but surrender none the less. A bitter taste started to climb up from his suddenly churning stomach. He was chained.  
  
"I do not want..." he whispered.  
  
"Do not want what?" Fingon asked sharply.  
  
"I do not want... to..." He paused and closed his eyes, clenching his jaw shut as if it would help to stem the tide of nausea or at least still his shaking body as he forced out the words of surrender. "I... do not... want... to make... you... angry... my lord."  
  
Fingon smiled sweetly. "That is good of you." He patted the space on the bed between them. "Come here."  
  
Trance-like, Glorfindel shifted a few inches toward Fingon. When he moved no further, Fingon closed the distance by sliding his arm around Glorfindel's waist and pulling him close. "I only want to kiss you," said Fingon, pressing his mouth against Glorfindel's ear. "That's not so bad, is it?"  
  
Glorfindel said nothing, though he could hear the sound of his pounding heart, and was certain Fingon could hear too. That would be enough of an answer if he could not freely speak.  
  
"No, it is not so bad..." Fingon murmured. "Only a kiss..." His lips moved from Glorfindel's ear to cheek. Then he leaned forward, easing both of them down onto the bed, though he lay slightly on top. His lips moved to Glorfindel's mouth. A wave of fear raged at the intrusion, and Glorfindel tried to clench his mouth shut, but still Fingon's slippery tongue wormed and fought its way past his weak defence. He tasted of the sweet berry syrup, though strange and slick instead of sticky.  
  
After too long, Fingon broke the kiss and pulled away. "This is what I missed," he said softly. He rested his forehead against Glorfindel's shoulder, pressing against the bare skin. "It is what I would dream of. For all the time I was alone, it was easy enough to lean against a pillow and pull the blankets tightly around my shoulder to pretend it was my lover's arm. I could think of how we lay together, and that was easy enough. But there is no substitute for a kiss."  
  
Glorfindel braced himself, expecting something further, but Fingon was still. "Who?" he eventually found the courage to ask, in a small voice, after Fingon made no movement for several long moments.  
  
"What do you mean?" Fingon asked. He raised his head to look at Glorfindel.  
  
"Who was ... he?" Glorfindel asked. "Your lover, I mean."  
  
Fingon's face darkened. "No-one," he said. "A hypothetical lover." But he had a bitter look in his eyes, and Glorfindel would have questioned him further had he not shifted away to lie on his side. "How about you?" he asked.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Your hypothetical lover. I'm sure you've though of one. What is _she_ like?"  
  
Glorfindel blushed and looked at the blankets. "I don't have one."  
  
"I don't believe that."  
  
"I don't..."  
  
"How old did you say you are, forty-three?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Fingon smirked. "Then I cannot believe you've never thought of such things."  
  
"I haven't," said Glorfindel, but his cheeks flushed redder.  
  
"What is she like?" Fingon asked again. His hand moved back to Glorfindel's chest, skimming across to toy with a lock of hair that curled around his shoulder. "Some innocent young Vanyarin girl, dressed in white, long golden hair falling soft and shining down her back? Do you dare to think of her ever without that white dress?"  
  
Glorfindel made no answer.  
  
"I think you do," Fingon said. "Do you think of marrying her? Do you think of your wedding night?" He leaned closer, stroking his hand down Glorfindel's arm.  
  
"No," said Glorfindel, but even to his own ears his voice sounded weak and unconvincing. He had closed his eyes as an image came to him, and now he could not will it away. A girl he had seen, his own age, the daughter of a farming family that lived up the road from Amma's house. He did not know her name, but he had often seen her leading her goats to the river. Her face returned so sharply to his memory, along with dark recollections of shameful thoughts.  
  
"You have," Fingon quietly said. He leaned in so close that his lips brushed Glorfindel's as he spoke. "Do you think of kissing her?"  
  
Glorfindel stuttered. "Of c-course... n-not." His lips feathered Fingon's, and they tingled. The girl's face was so clear in his mind now.  
  
"Let yourself, Laurefindil," Fingon said quietly, his breath calm and soft. "You can think of her." He slid his hand around to cup the back of Glorfindel's neck and draw him into another, gentler kiss.  
  
This time Glorfindel did not pull back. He could pretend. It was just a kiss. Not so bad. Not a sin, just a kiss. If he could tell himself this then perhaps he could also believe it. Not so bad. He forced himself to concentrate on the image of the girl in his mind. He could pretend, as insistent lips moved against his. He could pretend, as his fingers came up to meet the soft wave of hair that fell down across his cheek. Black hair to closed eyes could pretend to be golden. Not so bad.  
  
He scarcely noticed when the hand that had been at his shoulder moved lower, to his waist, and lower still to his hip. But the illusion and any pretending he could manage were broken when Fingon's hand dared to slide beneath the fabric of his breeches. His eyes flew open and he twisted violently, scrambling away to sit upright on the bed.  
  
"You said you would only kiss me," he gasped.  
  
"I did," said Fingon, "and I am sorry. I will not do that again." He moved his hands to Glorfindel's shoulders, massaging lightly. "I will only kiss you."  
  
"Only kissing," said Glorfindel. "That's all." He looked to Fingon, eyes searching for some sort of honesty.  
  
"That's all," Fingon repeated, a sincere smile on his face. "Only kissing. Nothing more. I promise."  
  
Glorfindel slowly nodded, and Fingon leaned in to kiss him gently on the forehead. Then on the cheek, then on the lips. Fingon leaned forward to ease them back down onto the bed, but a knock at the door interrupted them before their shoulders even touched the blankets.  
  
"Imorionnen!" Fingon hissed, and then, "Who is it?"  
  
"Alkarrossë. I have important news."  
  
Fingon scowled, but his grip on Glorfindel slowly relaxed. After a moment he rolled onto his back, letting out a low groan and rubbing his hands over his face. "Come in," he said.  
  
Glorfindel quickly sat upright as Celeiros entered. "Your father bade me tell you, lord," Celeiros said, "that we have visitors."  
  
"Oh?" asked Fingon. He too sat upright on the edge of the bed. "Who are they?"  
  
"Your cousins," said Celeiros, and for a moment Fingon's breath hitched until he added, "Findaráto and Artanis. They arrived at the gate not and hour ago and are eager to see you."  
  
Fingon nodded. "Alright. You may tell them I'll be down shortly. I must dress." He patted his hands over his plain breeches.  
  
Celeiros though did not exit, but stood where he was until Fingon asked, "What?"  
  
"I would speak to you further," he said, "though..." He shot a quick glance to Glorfindel, who had shifted to the far end of the bed and sat hunched over as if trying to avoid being noticed.  
  
"You may go, Laurefindil," Fingon said, and he touched Glorfindel's shoulder. Immediately Glorfindel stood and gave a hasty bow to Fingon before hurrying to the door, only pausing to duck and grab his clothes from the floor.  
  
When he had gone, Fingon reached under the bed for the chamber pot. "What else do you want?" he asked as he stood.  
  
"Your father wanted to know if you are happy with the boy," said Celeiros.  
  
"If I weren't, do you think he would still be here?"  
  
Celeiros smiled thinly. "Of course not."  
  
"You can tell Ta thank-you from me," said Fingon. "I am happy with his selection this time. That doesn't mean I forgive him entirely, but it is a start." As he spoke, he unfastened the laces at his hips and lowered his breeches. He turned away from Celeiros to relieve himself.  
  
"He wishes to speak with you," Celeiros said after a pause, frowning to himself at Fingon's lack of discretion.  
  
"I know."  
  
"You will see him then?"  
  
"After I see Findaráto, perhaps," said Fingon. He pulled his breeches back into place and turned to face Celeiros. "Here," he said, holding the chamber pot out to him, "you can take this when you go."  
  
Celeiros scowled. "I believe that would be the job of your Vanyarin boy."  
  
Fingon only laughed and held it out further. "Don't think you're too good to empty a prince's piss-pot," he said. "And I'd sooner give the job to you than to him." He grinned broadly.  
  
With a low hiss of defeat Celeiros took the pot. "I will tell your father your are well and acting quite like your old self," he said sharply. Then he turned and exited as quickly as he could manage without splashing on his sleeves. He made it halfway down the stairway before bending to his disgust and simply tossing the contents out a nearby window.  
  
~ 

When Glorfindel shut the door to Fingon's bedroom behind him, he stood in the corridor for a moment simply wondering what he should do. Go back to his own room, he supposed. But now that he had been dismissed and was apart from Fingon, the fear and shame he had felt while in the bedroom were slowly starting to fade. Instead, they were replaced by pride and anger. He looked down with disgust at his half-naked body while wiping a hand across his lips. _What right does he have, prince or not_... he thought as the memories of Fingon's touches came back to him unwanted. _No right_ , he assured himself. _And I will not abide it. It is vile_.  
  
He scowled to himself as he hastily pulled on the rest of his clothes, smoothing both the fabric and his unbound hair into some semblance of decency. No, he would not tolerate this violation. He would speak to Fingolfin about the errant prince's unacceptable behaviour, and he would tolerate it no longer.  
  
And so he hurried away from Fingon's door, down the stairs, and through the sooty stone corridors back to the wide halls of Fingolfin's court. The King had received guests, Celeiros had said, which meant he might still be in the salon where he had spoken with Glorfindel the previous morning. The salon was on the far end opposite the tower stairs, if Glorfindel remembered correctly. And he did. He could see the large double doors propped halfway open. Spurred on by a renewed surge of anger, he quickened his pace.  
  
"My lord, I must tell you right now..." he said as he brushed past the door, but he stopped abruptly at the sight of the regal tableau inside.  
  
Fingolfin was indeed in the salon, sitting on a grand chair. But across from him, on a richly cushioned bench, sat the two visitors, and the sight of their beauty made Glorfindel gasp. Both were royally dressed and adorned with jewelled finery, and seemed nearly to glow in the soft light streaming in from high windows. Their golden hair lay as a sharp but perfect contrast on their deep green and blue clothes. Were these Fingon's cousins? They looked nothing like him. While Fingon was dark and secretive, a kind and open brightness radiated from these two like starlight.  
  
"Laurefindil," Fingolfin said. "How fortunate- I had just mentioned you."  
  
Glorfindel bowed hurriedly to the guests as his mind raced, trying to think of any way to retract his careless intrusion.  
  
"These are Findekáno's cousins," Fingolfin continued, seeming not to notice Glorfindel's uncertainty, "Findaráto and Artanis." Both guests nodded as they were named.  
  
"I... I mean we... had heard from Alkarrossë that they had arrived," Glorfindel stammered. "Findekáno is coming, I think..."  
  
Fingolfin nodded. "That is good to hear. I was just telling our guests how lucky it is that they arrived today, when Findekáno is back with us. I was saying how it has been such a time for arrivals, with you coming and then Findekáno returning and now visiting cousins..."  
  
Fingolfin continued to speak, but his attention had turned rather to Finrod while Glorfindel was left standing silently by. His cheeks burned with embarrassment and he wished for nothing more than to be able to turn around and hurry away as quickly as he had come. But sense kept him where he was, along with the knowledge that he could scarcely afford to make himself appear any more foolish and ignorant by disappearing without the king's leave. He took a deep breath to calm himself and concentrated on the interaction between Fingolfin and the cousins. Fingolfin appeared to have hundreds of things to say all at once, as if he hadn't spoken to anyone in years. Finrod politely nodded, but sat close to the edge of the bench as if only waiting for the right opportunity to leave the salon. Artanis sat with a demure ladylike grace, though her eyes shone with hidden thoughts.  
  
But there was a fourth also, one whom Glorfindel nearly failed to notice. Behind Fingolfin stood another figure, back somewhat and partially hidden from view. He stood so still as to be easily overlooked by one who focused on the busier scene in the foreground. But now that Glorfindel had seen him, he was intrigued. He stared. It was the same Sindarin boy who had been in the corridor the previous night, though now dressed in the soft blue and grey clothes of Fingolfin's court with his silver-blond hair pulled back into one severe plait at his neck. He stood with his hands folded behind his back, scarcely breathing, with unblinking eyes fixed on the floor. He was so still, as if only half alive: more like a ghost, or one nearly dead with strength enough left only to stand. No life showed in his face.  
  
A trickling sense of recognition started to seep over Glorfindel as he watched this strange stance and stillness. He knew this game, for had he not adopted it himself only hours earlier? The boy was trying to be invisible. He was standing there and hoping against all reason that Fingolfin would forget about him. He would not move out of fear that any small action might remind the king of his purpose. He was trying to be forgotten. A realisation churned in Glorfindel's stomach with a familiar sickness. This was Fingolfin's boy, as surely as Glorfindel was now Fingon's.  
  
Of course Fingolfin knew what his son did behind closed doors. It was no ill chance that Fingon behaved the way he did. It was what he was meant to do. Fingolfin not only knew about it, but he also condoned and even facilitated it. He did it himself. The Sindarin boy had been in the corridor the previous night waiting at a bedroom door. He had been waiting for Fingolfin, as plainly as Glorfindel had been sent to wait for Fingon's use. What good would it be to report a crime that would not be considered a crime in the eyes of the king?  
  
Glorfindel would have run then, no matter the consequences. He would have turned and run as fast as he could out of the salon, out of the castle, away from Eithel Sirion and back the way he came, abandoning his few precious things to the small room in the dark tower. They were an insignificant price to pay. He would have run with all his strength had Fingolfin not turned back to him at that moment.  
  
"But, Laurefindil, you had something to report to me?"  
  
No, Glorfindel thought bleakly, there was nothing to report. Nothing that was not already known. He clumsily stepped forward to give a quick bow as he stalled to think of anything worth saying to the king now. He could feel a cold clamminess creep over his face and hands.  
  
"My lord," he said shakily, looking from the ground to the king, or anywhere besides at the Sindarin boy. "I have noticed that Findekáno... he..." His mind whirled, desperately seeking an item of significance. A few images came: a dim fire, charcoal letters on the stones, a room devoid of life, and wardrobe doors hanging open. He looked up to meet Fingolfin's eyes. "My lord Findekáno has no clothes!" he said suddenly, in a voice that sounded too shrill. "He has brought nothing from his other house, and has only his travelling outfit to wear. Nothing fit to meet his good cousins. I do not know how I should help him dress if there is nothing to wear."  
  
Fingolfin smiled at him. "It pleases me how you care for my son," he said. "And of course I will call for all his things to be brought over here at once, as it seems he will be staying? But in the future, you will address these concerns of yours to the housemaster. I will have Alkarrossë introduce you to him. He takes care of all matters of servants and tasks."   
  
"Yes of course," said Glorfindel. He felt the blood returning to his face. It was hot and made him flush pink.  
  
"And that is all?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Fingolfin nodded and held up his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Glorfindel quickly bowed, and again had to keep himself from running. He exited the salon at what he thought was a reasonable pace, and only sped up once he was well clear of the grand double doors. He was halfway across the hall on his way back to the tower base when a hand grabbed him from behind and spun him roughly around.  
  
"Do not ever think to do that again!" hissed Celeiros. He held Glorfindel harshly by the shoulders. "It is not your place to interrupt the king, and certainly not your place to bother him with idiotic servants' work! If you had any sense at all you would have realised that!"  
  
Glorfindel squirmed, but Celeiros' grip was as tight as it was painful. "I am sorry," he said, "but I did not know who else to see. I did not mean offence!" He tried to step back, but Celeiros only jerked him forward again and clutched tighter with his long fingers.  
  
"You will see me!" Celeiros said. "You will tell all your concerns to me, and then I will tell you if you need consult anyone else! You never see the king. Never him!"  
  
"I will remember that."  
  
"You will!"  
  
"I will." Celeiros' grip eased, and Glorfindel stepped away. "I will see you."  
  
Celeiros nodded coldly. "Good. Now go to your room, and stay there until someone comes for you. I don't want you loose around here causing more trouble."  
  
"That's where I was going," said Glorfindel. He looked over in the direction of the tower stairs. Somehow, that seemed like the only place he could go.  
  
"You can find the way on your own?"  
  
"I think so... The third floor?"  
  
Celeiros paused a moment, then stepped ahead of Glorfindel with a slight scowl. "I will show you one more time, but you must remember now. Follow me."  
  
For the second time, Glorfindel followed Celeiros up into the tower. It seemed no less overwhelming, and no more of a home, than it had before. The same soot and smoke still lingered in the corridors. Celeiros said nothing as they walked, and only gestured curtly to the correct room once they reached the third floor."  
  
"Thank you," Glorfindel said quietly. He looked at his hand as he turned the doorknob.  
  
"Stay here," said Celeiros. "Someone will come for you eventually. Do not leave this room."  
  
"I will not. But..."  
  
Celeiros narrowed his eyes. "What?"  
  
"I have a question," said Glorfindel. "About the Thindarin language." He shifted nervously under Celeiros' hard stare, already sorry for mentioning anything.  
  
"You can ask me," said Celeiros. "What is it?"  
  
The scene in the corridor from the previous night replayed quickly in Glorfindel's mind. The Sindarin boy's unsettling words still stuck with him, worrying and confusing. _Nach ant an Fingon i ernil danten, you are a gift for Fingon the prince_...? Had the boy known too?   
  
"Danten," he said after a pause, his voice quiet. "The word danten. What does it mean?"  
  
"Danten? It means fallen. Why?"  
  
Glorfindel shook his head. "Nothing, I just... heard someone say it yesterday, and I didn't know the word. That's all."  
  
"Fallen," Celeiros repeated. He stood there a moment longer then, when satisfied that Glorfindel had no further questions, turned and disappeared down the corridor at a brisk pace.  
  
Glorfindel gladly shut the door. Where before he had feared being left alone, now he considered that it was better to be alone than to be alone with Fingon. At least when he was by himself there was no immediate danger. He pulled off his good outfit, laying them carefully over the chair though they were already wrinkled, and dressed himself again in common clothes. Then he lay down on the bed to rest and wait until Celeiros returned, falling into a fevered half-sleep. He was tired, he realised, having slept so little in Fingon's bed.  
  
His dreams were maddening: the same scenes of Fingon's kiss and Fingolfin's Sindarin boy repeated over too many times, the same damning words spoken until they ceased to serve any function but to make him dizzy with the wish for all to simply be silent and still. He awoke many times, if he ever really slept at all, once almost crying aloud for the repulsive thoughts to leave him. But they swirled faster and louder until he pulled at his hair and struck himself across the face in frustration. He was too weak to fight the torture of dreams, and too exhausted not to sleep at all. So he wept, with his hands clutching knots of hair over his ears and his eyes pressed into the dark heaviness of the quilts, and resigned himself to be battered by unkind memory.

* * *

_Nôr - (S) fire_

_Minto - (S) enter_

_Bass - (S) bread_

_Imorionnen - (Q) to the dark one_


	5. Sinda

"You needn't speak," said Fingolfin. "I can sense what you think and feel, in my heart. And that is good enough. We need not speak to convey our love. But here, come sit by me, as you used to when we were first wed. Do you remember then? Before the children were born. It was different then, wasn't it? ...No here, sit here... yes, just like that. And you can lay your head in my lap so I can run my hands through your hair and let it spill across my palms. It is a simple pleasure, but one I miss when you are not with me. You always had such beautiful hair, like a sash of black satin, perfect even as it lay in tangles across my pillow. I remember that too, you know, on those nights, rare and precious as they were. Too rare. I think we both know that.  
  
"Did you find a fault with me, that drove you away, that brought such distance and darkness between us? I only tried to love you as I could. That was never good enough, it seemed, when you loved our child better and I was brought to fight with my own son for your attentions. I don't know if you ever saw how you hurt me with your easy dismissal, Anairë, or how your few careless words all but destroyed us. For all those years, I suffered from your blind cruelty.  
  
"But now, my love, we are together, and we are alone. We can make up for our mistakes and losses. Can you guess what I would ask of you? One little favour, as you sit with your head at my knees? I will take your hand... yes, you can guess, my clever Anairë. With your small hands, such delicate hands. You can always guess. And your breath, so sweet, and your... No do not pause, not now, when you are so good to me. ...yes, just like... you do know. You have not forgotten, even after so many years. I need not remind you... bend your wrist like so... or move like... and come nearer now... oh very softly... Why lift your head, now? Is there-"  
  
"Pen tôl."  
  
There was a sound in the corridor. The Sindarin boy moved sharply back and stood just as there came a knock at the door. Fingolfin had time only to open his eyes and throw shut his robe before the door opened and Fingon stepped inside. The destructive, disruptive son.  
  
Fingon stared at him unapologetically. "Poor timing?"  
  
"What do you want?" Fingolfin asked.  
  
Fingon ignored him. "Get out of here," he said, frowning at the Sindarin boy and motioning to the door with his elbow.  
  
"Ethelithon," said the boy, and he bowed to Fingolfin before exiting quickly.  
  
When the boy had gone, Fingon waited moment before speaking. His eyes drifted insincerely over the room's furniture as he avoided his father's scowling gaze. "I'd would ask how you can stand to spend so much time with him," he said with a small cough, "though I'm not sure I really want to know."  
  
"The time is not to my convenience, Findekáno."  
  
"You hurt me, Ta," Fingon said. He sat down heavily beside Fingolfin on the bed, wrapping an arm around his father's waist. "That's no way to greet your favourite son whom you've not seen in ten years."  
  
"Favourite," Fingolfin scoffed. No, Turgon had always been his favourite, and always would be. That was no secret. Fingon had been the favourite of Anairë. That was no secret either. The knowledge was too common, and it burned Fingolfin even now to think of it.  
  
Fingon's face hardened as if he had read his father's thoughts. "Neuno hasn't been much of a presence lately, has he?" he asked. "Off building his own city, far away from us. Hardly considerate, is he."  
  
Fingolfin ignored the remark. "What do you want?"  
  
"I don't *want* anything, Ta. I just came by to see you. Make up for lost time. We could talk for a while."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"I don't care. Anything. News." Fingon twirled a lock of hair around his finger. "I think I'm going to stay here."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Mmm." Fingon nodded. "That new servant, the Vanya- he's doing quite well so far."  
  
"I'm glad you like him."  
  
Fingon nodded again. "I mean, he needs to learn a few basics, but otherwise he'll do nicely."  
  
Fingolfin said nothing in reply, letting the air hang tense and thick between them. Long seconds passed before he asked, "Is that all?"  
  
"No," said Fingon. He turned to face his father, meeting his eyes and challenging his indifference. "I only want to talk to you," he said, "for once at least." His voice was quieter, almost holding a note of rare sincerity.  
  
But Fingolfin was unmoved. "Then talk," he said. "I am at your mercy."  
  
"Well," Fingon began slowly, "I suppose that since I have decided to stay, I will need my things brought back here."  
  
"I have already called for them to be brought."  
  
"I will need my good clothes by this afternoon, as we will naturally be having a supper for Findaráto and Artanis?"  
  
Fingolfin nodded, but stayed silent, ushering in another long pause. This time, a minute or more passed.  
  
"You never welcomed me back, Ta," Fingon finally said in a bitter voice.  
  
"You refused to see me until now," Fingolfin countered flatly.  
  
"Perhaps because I knew you would be as difficult as ever to talk to."  
  
"Perhaps because you have always been distant and uninterested in talking to me."  
  
"Perhaps because you never gave me reason to be otherwise!"  
  
"Perhaps because you always favoured your mother and never gave me the chance!" Fingolfin snapped. Immediately he regretted it. He looked at his hands and bit down on his tongue. There was no use in starting another battle with Fingon over Anairë. He had fought that one long ago, and lost.  
  
But Fingon would not let it go. "Ammë," he said slowly, "never shouted at me. She never doubted or dismissed me, as you have often done."  
  
"She spoiled you," countered Fingolfin.  
  
"She loved me," Fingon said. He stood, looking down to stare his father in the eye. A small, cold smile spread across his lips. "And at least when I tell myself that, it is not a lie."  
  
With a fierce swiftness, he turned his back and left the room as abruptly as he had come. Fingolfin remained sitting, blood quietly raging, until he could stand it no more and he stood with a frustrated shout. The crown on his head felt heavy. He could hardly call himself King if he could not control his own son, or his own temper. He reached for the crown, useless as it was, and flung it at the fireplace. It fell against the stones with a satisfactory metallic clang. For a long, slow while, Fingolfin stared at its meaningless shape, and a thousand darkened thoughts filled his mind.  
  
"Ferno!" he shouted. The room gave him no answer. He went to the door, looking out into the stone corridor beyond, and called again. "Ferno!"  
  
But the boy was nowhere to be seen, and Fingolfin was alone.

~ 

Glorfindel awoke to a knock at the door. It was neither the sharp, purposeful knock of Celeiros, nor the quiet, deferential knock of servants. "Who is it?" he called. His voice sounded so young, lost and uncertain, weak and afraid. He imagined he looked like a small frightened child, cowering helpless on his bed, and he hated that thought. He sat upright and stared at the door. There was no answer to his question, but after a moment the knock came again.  
  
"Come in?" he called, quieter than before.  
  
The door opened and a pale face peered down at him from out of the darkness beyond. Then a small figure stepped inside, closing the door quickly behind him. It was Fingolfin's Sindarin boy. "Armion told me this was your room," the boy said. He sat down on the bed and glanced around. "Same as mine. Mine's just down the corridor."  
  
"Oh..." said Glorfindel, at a loss for what else to say. The boy spoke too quickly to be fully understood.  
  
"I'm Oropher," the boy said suddenly. "Personal retainer to the King." He forced a note of pride into his voice as he spoke his title.  
  
"I'm Laurefindil," said Glorfindel.  
  
"Glorfindel," said Oropher.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Your edhelren name," said Oropher. "It would be Glorfindel."  
  
Glorfindel blushed at his mistake. Carefully, he repeated, "Glor-fin-del." The name rolled awkwardly off his tongue, unaccustomed as he was to the difficult Sindarin consonants.  
  
"Good enough for now," Oropher said with a shrug. He stood up and went to Glorfindel's table, looking over the few things that lay upon it in a way that made Glorfindel uncomfortable, as if in his simple Sindarin clumsiness he were liable to break or lose something. He picked up the copper knife and ran his thumb over the dull blade. Glorfindel cringed. The thought of his delicate treasures from Valinor being handled by this heathen dark Elf, who likely wore animal skins or nothing at all before Fingolfin gave him proper clothes, made him uneasy.  
  
"Moriquendu..." he muttered.  
  
"What?" Oropher asked. When Glorfindel remained silent, he continued, "I heard you talking to the King this morning."  
  
"Yes, I was," said Glorfindel. He leaned forward, anxious to keep his eyes on Oropher's meddling hands.  
  
"In that other language. So you do come from across the sea?"  
  
"I do. Why?"  
  
Oropher seemed to ignore the question. He turned the knife over in his hand before setting it back down, then returned to sit beside Glorfindel on the bed. Glorfindel exhaled in relief.  
  
"I was talking to Armion this morning, early. Armion said you probably weren't a real Miniel but just half Telerren like the Prince's cousins." He narrowed his eyes as if examining Glorfindel closely. "You look like him. What's he called... I saw him and his sister this morning in the salon with the King. Maybe that's why Armion said it. But maybe he don't know what he's talking about if you do come from over the sea. And if you do, like you said, then you can help me."  
  
Glorfindel looked at him blankly. Oropher spoke far too quickly, and the few words he managed to catch made little sense when strung together. He understood something about that morning, and Fingon's cousins being half Telerin, and a request for help. But there was no reasonable connection between those things, as far as Glorfindel could imagine. He stared at Oropher a moment before simply asking, "What?"  
  
"Good," said Oropher, taking the question as an agreement. "See, I want to learn your language."  
  
"What?" Glorfindel asked again, though this time he understood perfectly what Oropher had said.  
  
"I want you to teach me."  
  
"Teach... you? Quendya?"  
  
Oropher nodded. "Mm-hmm. The King talks to me all the time, but I never know what he's saying. And his edhelren isn't very good, so I want to know your language. I want you to teach me."  
  
"Oh," said Glorfindel. He considered Oropher's request. The first concern that came to him was, were the Sindar even allowed to learn the speech of Valinor? They must be, he thought. It was only words. Anybody could learn words. Fingon had mentioned the night before how the Sindar had no desire to learn Quenya, or they chose not to, or they were incapable. He hadn't said that they were forbidden from learning. But still the thought of teaching Oropher seemed unsettling somehow. Almost as if it were an unspoken rule that Quenya would remain ever the high speech of the Noldor, used in private or for court ceremonies- a secret code for the elite. The Sindarin servants would never know what their masters spoke of in quiet counsel.  
  
He looked at Oropher, who stared back at him impatiently. No, Fingon hadn't said it was forbidden. What would the harm be, really?  
  
"Will you?" Oropher asked.  
  
"I... I can," said Glorfindel.  
  
~  
  
Oropher remained with Glorfindel for the greater part of the afternoon. He had taken it upon himself to show Glorfindel around to all the important rooms and corridors of Barad Eithel, as well as thoroughly explain how and when each was used despite the fact that Glorfindel only understood a fraction of his speech. It was not until they had seen all the stairwells, the upper and lower corridors, the kitchens, the store rooms, the tunnels to the stables and barracks, the servants' dining room, the lower hall, and both common bath rooms that Oropher decided they were done for the day.  
  
"Now I guess I'd better take you to see Armion," he said, "since he wanted to have a look at you and get you some clothes made. But he's very close- just down at the end there back past our dining room."  
  
With a short nod Glorfindel followed after Oropher, who seemed to be walking more quickly than necessary. "Who is Armion?"  
  
"He's the housemaster and chief tailor," said Oropher. "He's in charge of all the servants, making sure they know what they're supposed to do and when, and making sure they're dressed right. He'll probably make you wear something different."  
  
Glorfindel looked down at his clothes, running a possessive hand over each sleeve. "What is so bad with this?" he asked. "This was my grandfather's clothes, though my Amma made the..." He paused, trying to think of the proper Sindarin word for Amma's beadwork. "She made all this," he finally decided with a large gesture to the beads.  
  
Oropher shrugged off Glorfindel's concern. "Might be the wrong colour," he said. "Or the wrong style. You'll probably have to wear a coat like me, maybe."  
  
Oropher, Glorfindel saw, wore fitted coat of shining blue over tight grey breeches. The coat was knee-length in the front, but longer in the back, showing a vivid yellow lining where it hung down. It had a high black collar and purple cuffs. In all, it looked stiff and uncomfortable, as well as garishly bright. "But maybe I will have something different?" he asked.  
  
"You'll have to see what Armion says," said Oropher. He stopped in front of a door marked with a star and waited for Glorfindel to catch up to him before knocking.  
  
Armion the Housemaster was a Sindarin Elf who had lived in the lands bordering Sirion long before Fingolfin's coming. There was no joy about him. His grey hair, which must have once been brilliant silver, was pulled back into a single strict plait down his back, and his dark grey eyes were flat and dull. His clothing was grey like ash, making even his skin seem pale and colourless as the rest of him. He walked with a limp, heavily favouring his left leg.  
  
Years earlier, Armion had been a chief of his people, watching over a small village just south of where Eithel Sirion now stood. Then, he had been tall and proud and noble as Thingol himself. He had sneered at the coming of the Noldor and paid little heed to their presence in Hithlum, and he stood against them when Fingolfin led his people over the mountains. Interrupters, he called them, meddlers and thieves who took the good land of the Sindar and ruined it with their bleak stone buildings and rumbling war-wains. He spat at the name of Finwë Nolofinwë. He also underestimated the king's power.  
  
All those who opposed Fingolfin's fortress at Eithel Sirion, and those who refused to acknowledge Fingolfin as King, were taken by soldiers. Armion was taken, and months passed before his people saw him again. When the soldiers brought him back, he was shrunken and silent. His leg had been broken and carelessly reset. His shoulders were bent and scarred with stripes. Thereafter he hated the Noldor, but he hated the Sindar more, for their cowardice, and for seeing in them his own weakness. All of them had been defeated and made subject to the new lord from the West. He hated them for their submission.  
  
He hated Oropher especially, as Oropher had been born free in a south-eastern village outside of Fingolfin's reach, but had come to Eithel Sirion of his own will. He hissed in disgust when he opened the door to his little room, and turned his back. "You again," he said.  
  
"I brought the Prince's Miniel," said Oropher, following Armion into the room. "And he is really. Came from over the sea and don't speak edhelren hardly. See for yourself!" He lifted himself up onto the table and sat there, dangling his feet over the edge.  
  
Armion turned to regard Glorfindel with a quick sneer. "Bah, as if I care one way or the other!" he said. "Why's he here? I've got work to do."  
  
"Needs new clothes," said Oropher, "like you said this morning. Might as well get that done now, right?"  
  
"I'm too busy," said Armion. "Bring him back tomorrow. Early." He turned his back again and shuffled over to a high counter at the far side of the room.  
  
"As you like," said Oropher. He kicked his dangling legs and hummed to himself.   
  
Armion turned around. "What's that mean?" he growled.  
  
"Nothing," said Oropher. "Just thought you might be in more of a hurry, since... well you know."  
  
Growling again in the back of his throat, an ugly, cursing sound, Armion shuffled a few steps over toward Oropher. "No I don't know," he said. "What're you on about?"  
  
"Oh you know how impatient they all are," said Oropher. He stretched out his leg and hooked his foot around a nearby chair, pulling it toward the table. He rested his feet on the seat. "I mean the King and them. They don't like you now, do they, so you don't want to give them any more trouble, do you? Don't want to give them any more reason to not like you. 'Specially after I was told to bring our Glorfindel down here and get him some new clothes made. They're supposed to have supper with those cousins tonight."  
  
The look on Armion's face sank from a scowl of contempt to a gaping frown of disbelief. "He's mad!" he screeched. "He knows I can't get anything for tonight, or tomorrow, or any sooner than ten days! At least ten days, maybe more! That's madness!"  
  
Oropher nodded emphatically. "That's why you should start now," he said, "so's you can at least show him you started. Then he won't be as upset that there's nothing done, maybe."  
  
Armion spat on the floor. He narrowed his eyes at Oropher and gave Glorfindel another disgusted sneer before hobbling around to pound on a small door in the side wall. "Henael! Henael, get out here!" Then he shuffled back to his counter, muttering to himself as he searched for something amid the mess of scattered objects.  
  
Oropher finally turned to look at Glorfindel, who felt ready to shrink into a corner to hide. "He's not so bad when you get to know him, really."  
  
Glorfindel nodded meekly in reply. He watched as Armion pulled up a pair of shears and a measuring tape, wishing that he had never listened to Oropher in the first place and had stayed in his own room. Armion made him uneasy, and Oropher's casual indifference helped none. He had a gnawing fear that whatever happened next would be unpleasant.  
  
"Henael!" Armion shouted again. "I said, get out here! Important work!" He gave the little door another hard smack as he passed on his way over to Glorfindel. The door opened and a silver-haired girl, who was so alike in appearance to Armion that she must have been his daughter, poked her head out.  
  
"I'm busy!" she shouted back at him. "Mending up Daebregol's cloak again! The ass went and tore it on a fencepost and he needs it for hunting tomorrow!"  
  
"You get Thiliel to do that when she's back from her rounds," said Armion. "Now you measure this boy here for new clothes. That'll be your job less only the King says otherwise."  
  
With an irritated snarl, Henael tossed Daebregol's torn cloak against the wall and grabbed the measuring tape from Armion. "Take your clothes off," she snapped at Glorfindel.  
  
Glorfindel nearly choked on his breath. "What?" he asked, sincerely hoping that he had misheard.  
  
"Your clothes off," Henael repeated. "Can't measure you proper when you're dressed, can I?"  
  
"He don't speak edhelren too well," said Oropher. "Maybe can't understand you." He jumped down off the table and stood in front of Glorfindel, unbuttoning and pulling off his own jacket to demonstrate. "Clothes off," he said slowly.  
  
Glorfindel stepped quickly backward, a look of shock and horror spreading across his face. He crossed his arms over his chest and clutched at his sleeves. "No!" he said, shaking his head at Henael. New clothes or not, he would sooner risk Fingon's wrath than undress in front of a strange Sindarin girl.  
  
Henael sighed. "One of those kind, ain't he..." She took another step toward Glorfindel, holding out the measuring tape as an explanation of innocence. "Look, I only have to measure you for your new clothes. Not so hard, eh? You just take that off-"  
  
She reached out to grasp the collar of Glorfindel's robe just as he stepped back again, firmly shaking his head. "No!" he repeated. But Henael was quick, and her hand closed around the edge of the fabric even as she stepped with him.  
  
"Look here, you stupid, ignorant Elf!" she said, temper rising once more as Glorfindel struggled to move away. "I have to measure you, and you have to take these clothes off, simple as that! You don't want your Prince to see you've been giving me a time, do you?"  
  
"Glorfindel, please," said Oropher. "It won't take a minute... You want Armion should do it, and Henael can turn around and not watch?"  
  
As if promoting Oropher's suggestion, Henael released Glorfindel's collar and glanced hopefully at Armion. Armion in turn stared coldly back at Glorfindel.   
  
"I won't stand for this nonsense. I don't need none of your Western morals or modesty. You're one of us now so you'll act like one of us, and you'll do what I say. And I say undress."  
  
Glorfindel's hands were shaking. He curled and uncurled his fingers, hidden inside his sleeves, to try and calm himself. He breathed, low and deep. "I am not," he said, fighting to keep his voice softly level and speaking in the best words he could find. "I am not one from you, and I will not undress. In my home, this thing is not done. Not with..." he paused to glance at Oropher and Henael. "Not with others to watch. It is not right, and I will not do this."  
  
Armion was silent for one terrible moment before slamming his fist down on the table and shouting with rage. "Darkened stars! I don't care one jot for how things were done back in your home, you lazy swine! You think you're so much better than us, don't you, since you come from that fancy land of yours! All you... whatever you are..."  
  
"Mínil," said Oropher.  
  
"Shut up!" Armion yelled before turning back to Glorfindel. "It don't make one bit of difference, see, since you're here now and here's where you're staying! All you Western dogs might do well to remember that you're in my land now, and I'll be killed by an orc before I let any more of you walk in here and do what you please! I've had enough with that mindless self-crowned king and his whining son. I don't need you servants acting the same!"  
  
Armion snarled, and would have spat at Glorfindel's feet had he not been interrupted by a quiet knock at the door. He motioned for Henael to answer it, but though she flung the door open angrily, she moved quickly back and bowed low.  
  
Fingon stood in the doorway. He stepped inside, looking around the room as if he found it distasteful to even be in such a place, sniffing at the stale air. "You must think to be quieter, Armion," he said; "the whole corridor can hear what you shout." He spoke in heavily accented Sindarin, as if the language were beneath him and he had no interest in learning how to pronounce the words or even form proper sentences.  
  
"My lord," Armion muttered. He stared at the floor.  
  
But Fingon paid him no attention, instead turning to smile at Glorfindel. "Good, I search for my friend here. You will make for him now new clothes?"  
  
"I will, sir," said Armion, "but he refuses to cooperate."  
  
"How?"  
  
Armion coughed. "Well, sir, he refuses to undress so we can measure him."  
  
"Oh?" Fingon raised an eyebrow, then took two steps to stand in front of Glorfindel. In one quick movement, he pulled off Glorfindel's outer mantle and tossed it onto the table. "You can now do it," he said. "And if you are too stupid to measure him with only this clothes on, then you are too stupid to be a tailor. I will think to have you make roads instead."  
  
"Yes lord," said Armion, in a voice barely audible.  
  
Fingon sighed. "You make me handle such..." He paused, searching for the word.  
  
"Nonsense?" asked Oropher.  
  
Fingon sneered at him. "You may not speak to me. And I have told you today twice already to leave from my sight. Go! I do not want ever to see you."  
  
"Should I go back to the King?"  
  
"No!" Fingon hissed.  
  
Shrugging, Oropher pulled his coat back on and headed out the door. "I'll be on the stairs!" he called back to Glorfindel as he left.  
  
Glorfindel wished he could answer, but between Fingon watching him hawkishly and Armion hovering over him with the measuring tape, he was too nervous to breathe properly, let alone think of anything to say. So he stared at the floor until Armion told him to look up, then stared at the ceiling until Armion told him to look straight ahead, then stared at Fingon's sleeve, as it seemed to be the safest part of Fingon to stare at. He could not bear to look to Fingon's stern face and sharp eyes. It was a trial enough to be touched and prodded and have every possible dimension of his body measured by Armion. It only made the ordeal worse to know that Fingon watched him with great interest. He shuddered.  
  
"Nearly done," said Armion, though in a tone that sounded more like scolding than assurance.  
  
"When will you have clothes for him finished?" Fingon asked.  
  
"Ten days," said Armion, "maybe twelve."  
  
Fingon shook his head. "That is too late. Finish with eight days and no more."  
  
"I have other work to do."  
  
"No," said Fingon, "this is most important. You will do only this. You and the girl together will make eight days."  
  
Armion sighed heavily and put his measuring tape down on the table. "I am sorry, my lord," he said, "but it is impossible to make anything of quality in that time. I can do ten days, but no fewer. I cannot do an entire set of clothes in eight days."  
  
"Then you will do two sets in eight days," said Fingon. "And you will not grumble further, or I will cut out your tongue and fill your mouth full with hot lead. And you will have two clothes for my friend finished in eight days, or you will be out from your nice room here and put to make roads.  
  
"Yes, sir." Armion nodded in defeat, though Glorfindel could see his fists clenching angrily.  
  
Fingon smiled thinly at him. "Good. Now remember this: I will have for him one dark blue, with underneath a light grey shirt. Long, cross in front, wide sash, but not so big sleeves like usual. Then the other the same, but dark green with the gold shirt. And make these nice, with good fabric- perhaps some nice pattern and trim. If it is not good enough, you will make over again."  
  
"Of course," Armion muttered.  
  
"And when you finish," Fingon added, " you can make for me the same style, but out from black."  
  
"Is that all?"  
  
Fingon nodded. "I think for now."  
  
Without another word, Armion turned to a tall cupboard along the wall and began pulling out folds of fabric in the colours Fingon listed.  
  
"No," said Fingon, shaking his head. "Not those. Not that linen. It is no good. Make for him out of better stuff, like you would make for me."  
  
Now that his back was turned on Fingon, Glorfindel could see a look of fierce hatred pass across Armion's face. His fists clenched again and he ground his teeth together. "You know I can't do that," he said. "You know the rules about what servants can wear."  
  
"He is my friend," said Fingon, "and the first son by a high Vanyarin lord across the sea. Not a servant. You will think better on him."  
  
Armion exhaled a slow breath. "Of course. I am sorry."  
  
"Good," said Fingon. "I will expect then this new clothes in eight days." He held out his hand to Glorfindel, motioning him nearer. "Come with me. We must leave Armion to work now."  
  
Glorfindel nodded, and gathered his mantle from the table before following Fingon out the door. Armion watched them go, his expression changing from humble fear to furious hatred within seconds. "Henael!"  
  
Henael stepped out from behind the door where she had been hiding. "I'll get to work," she said quietly.  
  
"This is all you work on until it's done," Armion said. "You and Thiliel both. I don't care if you don't eat or sleep for eight days; it had better be done. Or else we're all in for suffering at that arse's leisure."  
  
~  
  
As soon as they were alone in the corridor heading to the tower, Fingon slipped back smoothly into Quenya. "They're all thick as orc shite," he said, "but we need them to do most of the labour around here. It's a wonder they ever managed to accomplish anything at all before Ta showed up to tell them what to do. Not that they have much to show: a few villages here and there, wool clothing, crude weapons. They've not evolved much since Cuiviénen without the enlightenment of Valinor. Still savages in the wild, really."  
  
"You said I was the son of a lord," Glorfindel said softly.  
  
"I did," said Fingon.  
  
"I am not."  
  
Fingon coughed in uncertainty. "You told my father you were, and so you must be. One cannot lie to the King."  
  
"But I did," said Glorfindel. He cringed to remember his first encounter with Fingolfin, still feeling sick to think of what he had done.  
  
"It will be our secret," Fingon said with a smile. "You won't be caught, so long as I can help you keep up the ruse."  
  
Glorfindel forced a smile in return, but was uncomforted by Fingon's optimism. His stomach still twisted nervously. It helped none when Fingon placed an arm around his shoulder, and his nerves only worsened the higher they climbed up the tower staircase to Fingon's bedroom.  
  
The room, Glorfindel saw, had changed since he was last in it. Now it was filled with objects: some in what looked like a proper place, others set randomly over the floor and furniture. A large chest stood in the middle of the bedroom and halfway blocked the door to the bathing and dressing room. Everything looked cluttered and awkward. Fingon, though, seemed not to mind as he stepped around the obstacles, using the chest as a place to drop discarded clothes on his way to the bath. Glorfindel made himself useful by picking up each article and folding them neatly into a stack.  
  
"You needn't do that," said Fingon. "Just toss it all into the basket by the door. The laundresses will collect it tomorrow."  
  
Glorfindel nodded, but still carefully placed his folded stack into the basket, afraid of damaging Fingon's fine clothes. He watched only from the corner of his eye, a fine blush creeping into his cheeks, as Fingon undressed completely and stepped into the bathwater.  
  
"There'll be a supper for my cousins tonight," Fingon said after wetting his hair. "The chest along the wall back there is filled with my clothes, if you would unpack everything and hang it in the wardrobe so I can find something to wear."  
  
Again Glorfindel nodded, and crossed to the room to kneel before a second wooden chest that had been placed along the far wall. Everything inside was neatly folded and ordered: clothes, mainly, but also shoes and some jewellery items wrapped in soft cloth. Resting on top was a square of folded satin, which Glorfindel carefully opened, the work-roughened skin on his fingers catching on the delicate fabric. He almost gasped to see the rich silver circlet inside. It was a thin prince's band, wrought of narrow twining strands that were unadorned but beautifully crafted. He was afraid to touch it, afraid to mar it with a slip of his fingers, but somehow it was impossible to stop himself. He let his fingertips glide over the smooth curves, perfect to his touch.  
  
Behind him, Fingon spoke on. "On second thought, I'll have you choose something for me. Choose what you think would be appropriate for tonight's supper."  
  
Glorfindel nodded in reply, only half aware that Fingon could not see him. He re-wrapped the circlet and set it safely aside on the table before continuing to look through the chest's fantastic wealth of clothing. Velvet and velveteen, silk and brocade, fine linen shirts, trims of lace and fur. Nearly all of it was black. Royally suited, but unvaryingly black all the same: black with gold embroidery, black with silver edging, black with black trim. Glorfindel searched for any hint of colour hidden within the folds of black, and only found it hidden at the bottom beneath an old set of black leather swordplay clothes. A crimson jerkin, shirt and breeches had been stowed with a crimson-trimmed outer robe of gold and silver. There was no need for Glorfindel to second-guess his choice. He pulled up the selection and set it on the table beside the circlet.  
  
"You aren't very talkative, are you?"  
  
Fingon had moved to sit upright in the bathtub and was now watching Glorfindel with an amused half-smile on his lips. Glorfindel shook his head.  
  
Fingon's smile widened and he held out his arm. "Bath sheet."  
  
With a quick nod, Glorfindel fetched a sheet from the rack and held it ready as Fingon stepped from the bath. He turned his eyes to avoid the sight of any part of the prince's nakedness.  
  
"Dressing robe," said Fingon. He let the bath sheet fall at his feet as Glorfindel pulled his black dressing robe from the back of a chair. "Talk to me about something," he said. He pulled he robe over his shoulders and fastened the ties loosely.  
  
"About... what?" Glorfindel asked.  
  
"I don't care. I just want to hear you say something for once. You're unnaturally quiet." He crossed to his desk by the window and sat, staring out at the cloudless blue sky. The window, which Glorfindel noted contained squares of real glass, had been opened, and a warm summer wind caught on the shutters. "Tell me about Valinor," Fingon said in a soft voice. "I am starting to forget." He handed Glorfindel a silver comb.  
  
"Valinor..." Glorfindel took the comb to the tangled ends of Fingon's wet hair, as gently as he could, carefully coaxing the strands into a straight fall of shining black. Fingon's hair was finer than his own, but thick and glassy smooth. Fingon had never worked a day in the sun.  
  
"Why did you leave? You told my father it was out of kinship to the Noldorin exiles, but I would like the actual story."  
  
Glorfindel bit his lip. Fingon would know if he lied. He had to tell the truth this time, loath as he was for Fingon to know. "I came here to find my father," he said quietly.  
  
"He is Noldorin?"   
  
"Yes. He left Aman after Fëanáro, before I was born. I never knew him, and he does not know he has a son. So I came to find him."  
  
"Is he a soldier?" Fingon asked. "What is his name?"  
  
"I don't know..." said Glorfindel. "Amma would not tell me. She is Vanyarin... I told your father I had a Noldorin mother, but really it is the opposite. Vanyarin mother and Noldorin father. Before I was born, just after they were married, Amma made a vow to Manwë never to speak my father's name or say anything of him until he returned to her."  
  
"I suppose that's more than a bit of an obstacle for you, then."  
  
"Yes," Glorfindel said with a nod. "I searched for any word of him in Valinor, giving Amma's name, but no-one knew any departed soldier who had married Amárië of Valmar. I asked all over Tirion."  
  
"Tirion..." said Fingon. "Tell me about Tirion."  
  
"I was only there a short time," said Glorfindel. "But... I remember when I first arrived. I walked from Valmar, and it was evening when I came through the Pelózi, just after a spell of rain. The clouds were still dark, all purple and blue, but golden light shone through a break in the sky and fell on the city like a holy ray. Even from miles away I could see it upon the hill and it shone like it were lit by the Valar."  
  
Fingon leaned back in the chair, his eyes closed. "I never saw Tirion by the light of the sun or moon. I cannot picture it fully."  
  
"I went to the Tower of Ingwë and stood at the base, looking up to the top until it made me dizzy. Yavanna's white tree still grows there beside the Mindon. And I saw the great stairways and wide streets. The masons were working to make new things, and to make the old things better. There is no place in Tirion I saw that is not decorated with the best stonework they can give."  
  
"No," said Fingon, "they take care to make everything beautiful. Even a gutter to carry away rainwater is carved to the perfect shape so that it only adds to the greatness of the city." As he spoke he looked at his stark stone room. There could be no fair comparison between the towers of Tirion and the hastily-built, practical Barad Eithel. Plain curtains concealed flat walls, and a simple door led only to another simple room. One day, maybe, it would grow to be something beautiful and worthy of its royal masters, but until then it would remain a rough stronghold built as a convenience for battle.  
  
With a sigh and a shake of his head, as if returning from some hazy memory of the past, Fingon stood. He ran his hands over his hair. "Thank you, I can plait it myself now," he said. "But show what you have chosen for me to wear."  
  
Obediently, Glorfindel pointed to the gold and crimson outfit lying across the table. Fingon stepped forward, holding back a smirk, and brushed his fingers lazily over the fabric. "You like this one best?"  
  
"Yes," said Glorfindel.  
  
"Truly the best, out of everything I own?"  
  
Glorfindel nodded. "Yes, out of everything I've seen."  
  
"Then you can have it," said Fingon. He picked up the garments, folded them over his arm, and held them out for Glorfindel to take. "I've never worn it, and never will. It's yours now."  
  
Glorfindel could only stare in surprise as he took the heavy fold of fabric, half through the force of Fingon's insistent gestures, and let it hang it over his own arm. But before he could think of anything to say, Fingon stepped in, picked it up again, and draped the robe loosely over his shoulders.  
  
"There you see," said Fingon; "I like it better already now that it's on you instead of me.  
  
It was made of silk, Glorfindel could tell. The smooth fabric was cool against the skin of his neck. "Thank you," he murmured, and was silent for a few short seconds until curiosity won out. "Why don't you wear it? It is-"  
  
"Lovely, yes," Fingon finished for him. "And very expensive too. It was a gift from my brother, who has good enough taste in clothing. But only for himself, not for me. It is really a shame to let such a piece sit in a wardrobe unworn. So if you will wear it, then I am glad to give it to you." He leaned over his clothing chest and pulled out one of the black items, and took his silver circlet from the table. As he crossed to the door that led back to his bedroom, he said, "You may take your bath and dress in here. I'll be waiting for you in the other room. But be quick- the supper starts at sundown, and we have little time left."  
  
The door tapped shut behind Fingon. Carefully, Glorfindel removed the robe from his shoulders, folding it onto the table with the shirt and jerkin and breeches. For a moment he stood and looked at it, noting tiny silver flowers woven on a background of gold, crimson velvet trim, and the extent of regal embroidery around the collar. He reached down to touch it, but with the back of his hand only so his fingers would not snag the fabric. On an impulse, he picked up the robe again and pulled it back on. It was still cold and heavy, but it sent a surge of pride through his body. He lifted his arm to see the way the great sleeve fell, and turned his head to see the way it draped around him. Even with Amma's beadwork, his grandfather's old clothes were poor fare compared to Fingon's discarded treasures.  
  
With that thought, he reluctantly pulled off the robe again and placed it back on the table. He unbuttoned his tunic, which suddenly felt very thin and plain, and stepped out of his breeches, which he noticed were somewhat worn in the knees. He made no effort to fold or place them properly on the table. Then he went to the bathtub. A thought crossed his mind, as he stepped into the warm water, that perhaps life at Eithel Sirion was not so bad after all.

* * *

_Pen_ _tôl - (S) someone is coming_

_Ethelithon - (S) I will return_


	6. Ring

"Father's coming," said Maitimo.

Findekáno, who lay naked on the riverbank, snorted in apathy. "So?"

"Get dressed."

"Why?"

"He'll know."

"Know what?" With a lazy smile, Findekáno rolled over onto his back and stretched in the warm breeze. "Nothing to see here but two cousins swimming."

"But you're naked," said Maitimo.

"Yes," said Findekáno, "because I was in the water. Do you swim with your clothes on?"

"No, but-"

"Then there's no reason we shouldn't be naked, is there?"

Maitimo's only reply was a scowl. He pulled his tunic down off the tree branch where it hung and tugged it harshly over his head. "Where are my shoes?"

"You weren't wearing any," said Findekáno. "Quit acting so suspicious. If he guesses anything, it'll be because you look like a criminal." He halfway sat up, propping himself on an elbow, and waved to Fëanáro as he came down the river path. "Taror! Ahoy!"

"Don't!" Maitimo hissed.

"He was coming this way on his own! It's not like he wouldn't have noticed us." Findekáno fell back down onto the grass and spread his damp hair about him like a fan to dry. Maitimo stood frozen, a pained look spreading across his face, as Fëanáro approached.

"You been swimming again?" Fëanáro called to them.

"We have, Taror," said Findekáno. "But you're too late. We're just drying off to go home now. You'll have to join us next time."

Fëanáro grinned. "I might. It's hot today... I could've used a swim." He looked up at Maitimo, who stood ashen-faced and wide-eyed against the tree line. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Maitimo, though his voice wavered.

"You look guilty. What did you do?"

"I... Nothing, Atar, I swear!"

Fëanáro scowled, taking a step closer to his son, though Findekáno interrupted his movement by sitting up abruptly between the two. "He lost is shoes, Taror."

"What?"

"Findekáno!"

"Where?"

"In the river," said Findkáno. "He was stupid enough to jump in with all his clothes on, and his shoes came right off and sank to the bottom."

Fëanáro turned to Maitimo. "The new shoes your mother just made you?"

"No!" Maitimo shouted. "He's making this all up!"

But Findekáno gave him a disapproving look, and Fëanáro did likewise. "I can't believe you can be so careless," said Fëanáro. "It seems every week you manage some new thoughtless gesture to disappoint me."

"Atar, you don't-," Maitimo began, but Fëanáro held up a hand to silence him.

"We'll not discuss this here. I'll talk to you about your actions when we get home. Right now I've come to see Findekáno."

For the first time, Findekáno looked the slightest bit unsure. "Oh?" he asked.

Fëanáro turned to him with a bright smile. "I have a gift for you."

"Oh!" Findekáno said, and he returned the smile just as brightly.

From his pocket, Fëanáro pulled a small cloth folded into a packet. He unwrapped it in his hand, folding the cloth back to show two identical gold rings, each labelled with a small tag. One carried the label FK, and he motioned for Findekáno to pick it up.

Gently, Findekáno took it, and held it up to inspect. It was a thick gold ring without a jewel, but so delicately crafted that it needed no further decoration. The band was divided into four equal sections, each showing a tiny scene: the great stairs of Tirion, the peaks of the Pelóri, the Two Trees of Valmar, and the stone archway of Alqualondë. He held up the other ring, labelled FR, to examine as well, and found it identical in every way that his eye could see, down to the last leaf on the holy Trees. "It's beautiful, Taror," he murmured, dropping the second ring carefully back into Fëanáro's hand. "They're both wonderful."

Fëanáro's smile widened. "Good," he said, "somebody at least appreciates my work." He clapped a hand on Findekáno's naked shoulder.

"I don't see how anyone could not appreciate rings like these," said Findekáno.

Fëanáro's smile faded slightly, but he said nothing.

"And you made it just for me?" Findekáno asked. "Who's the other one for?"

"Findaráto," Fëanáro said. "I made them for the children of my brothers. For the eldest sons. One for you, one for Findaráto."

Findekáno nodded. "He'll love his as well. He loves all presents, but especially gold-variety presents."

"I hope so," Fëanáro said, somewhat gruffly.

"I love mine, at least." Findekáno clasped his uncle's hand, squeezing it in thanks, before slipping the ring onto his finger. He turned his hand over and back, and twisted the band to look at it from all sides. "Thank you."

"Good," Fëanáro said. He turned back to Maitimo. "You come home straight away. I'd like to talk to you." Maitimo nodded miserably. Then, with a last smile to Findekáno, Fëanáro pocketed the second ring and headed off back down the path toward the city.

"I think he likes me," Findekáno said as soon as Fëanáro was safely away and out of earshot. He held up his hand to admire the ring.

Maitimo scowled. "Only because he's too blinded by his high opinion of you to see through your lies!"

"We're lucky he is," said Findekáno. "Which is amazing given that you seem incapable of going along with the excuses I make up..."

Maitimo sat down heavily on a clump of grass, dropping his head into his hands. "I can't believe you told him I lost my new shoes. I don't even want to think what the punishment will be."

"Probably no worse than the time I told him you got the grass stains on your tunic from wrestling in your good clothes," said Fingon with a shrug. "You have to think of it objectively. Would you rather have had to say, 'Sorry, Atar, but I was flat on my back and Findekáno was buggering me rather hard'? Which punishment do you think would've been worse? I can tell you right now that he'll be far less angry over lost shoes that aren't even really lost than swimming that wasn't really swimming."

Maitimo stared at the ground, poking the dirt with his bare toe. "I can't stand lying to my father."

"I know," said Findekáno. "But we have to." He sat down at Maitimo's side, sliding an arm around his waist. "And you're a terrible liar, but as long as you keep confessing minor crimes to cover your guilt then he won't guess the truth. You keep distracting him, I keep impressing him..." He paused to admire his new ring once more "As long as he thinks I'm a good influence on you, we can be together."

"Good influence my eye..." Maitimo snorted. "If he knew what you're really like he'd skin you alive."

"Like what?" Findekáno asked. "What am I like?" He leaned closer until he could breathe his whispered words into Maitimo's ear. "A sinful lusting incestuous wretch?"

Maitimo shivered and closed his eyes. "Uhh... yes."

Findekáno grinned. "Only because I love you," he said, and he kissed his cousin's cheek. His ring hand rested on Maitimo's thigh.

~

The banquet that night was the first time Glorfindel had seen Fingon looking like a true prince, as he walked grandly and swiftly through the corridors. His black clothes were adorned with fine jewels, and his black hair with clasps of silver and gold. The silver circlet gleamed at his brow. Glorfindel followed behind Fingon, partly out of deference, and partly because he did not know exactly where they were going. He had to lift his clothes as he walked to avoid tripping on the excessive fabric. Noldorin clothing, he noted, was far less fitted that what he was accustomed to. On top of that, the outfit made for Fingon was too large on his smaller frame. It hung loosely around his shoulders and threatened to slip at any moment. He clutched everything in folds around his waist as he and Fingon continued to make their way down to what he guessed would be the banquet hall.

This was also the first time he had seen Eithel Sirion looking like a palace great enough for a high king. Banners and garlands now covered the flat stone walls, and torches brightly burned with warm, golden light. The great hall at the base of the tower was filled with people, all the lords of the city, and all of them dressed in their finest to impress a prince who scarcely noticed their presence. They bowed to Fingon as he passed, and he nodded to few but the most noble-looking of them. They marked Glorfindel with curious gazes, and he looked down at his hands to avoid their eyes. He stared at his rings: two silver and one gold, both simply-crafted, and the silver bracelets at his wrists. He wore also silver earrings, a gold band in his hair, and two gold chains around his neck, one of which held the precious gold ring of his father that Amma had given him before he left Valmar. It felt overdone to him, to wear all these pieces at once, everything he owned. But seeing all the lords assembled in the hall, he was quick to notice that his small selection was hardly adequate. He looked and felt very poor compared to their outlandish decorations.

They followed Fingon into the banquet hall according to no order that Glorfindel could see. They sat randomly at the long tables, seeming to make no class distinction between the higher and lower lords as was made in Valmar, though clearly some showed in their dress that they had far more wealth than others. Those who occupied the seats nearest the head of the great table appeared to have no greater distinction than the cunning to have shown up first. In Valmar, the places nearest the king were always reserved for only the highest lords and clerics. In Valmar, Glorfindel had never been permitted to come close enough to see Ingwë at the great rallies, or even hear his voice when he spoke at the centre of the city. Now in Eithel Sirion, there were two places left empty at the right side of Fingolfin's chair.

Sindarin servants dressed in blue stood behind the chairs. For a moment Glorfindel wondered if he was expected to stand behind Fingon as they did, but Fingon took his arm and led him to the chairs. Fingon sat, and he sat at Fingon's right. The supper guests, who had stood at Fingon's arrival, seated themselves once again. The servants behind were quick to offer wine in silver cups. Fingon drank almost immediately, while Glorfindel sipped his more slowly, unsure of whether he liked the sour taste or hated it, and tried to look as if he belonged. He mimicked the haughty pose of one guest, and the intent look of another, while holding his wine cup lazily in one hand as his neighbour two seats down did. Fingon gave him no smirking looks of amused curiosity, so he guessed he was doing well enough.

Fingolfin was last to enter the hall, which Glorfindel knew must have been planned. With him came Finrod and Artanis. All the guests again stood and were silent until Fingolfin was seated at the head of the table, with Finrod at his left hand and Artanis to the left of Finrod, across from Glorfindel. Then the chatter began again. Soft music rose from somewhere at the far end of the hall. Fingolfin raised his glass to Fingon and the cousins, and they in return to him. Glorfindel hastily raised his own glass to the king, very aware of how out-of-place he was amid the palace customs and etiquette.

"I see the boy is joining us for supper," he heard Fingolfin mutter.

"Of course," said Fingon.

Glorfindel kept his eyes down, looking at his cutlery, though he felt Fingolfin's scrutinising gaze travel over him.

"He is wearing your clothes," the King said.

Fingon coughed. "I never wear that, as you know. I gave it to him."

Fingolfin seemed not to hear. "Not much in the way of jewellery, either."

At this, Glorfindel blushed. His few rings and chains seemed terribly inadequate now, seated so near to Fingolfin, who was heavily draped in gold.

"Is that a problem?" Fingon asked.

"No..." Fingolfin said slowly. He paused, as if ready to speak further, but a third voice interrupted.

"They don't seem to wear as much in the way of jewellery, Taror. The Vanyar I mean, of course. He's Vanya, isn't he?"

It was Finrod's voice. A voice which, Glorfindel thought, was one of the nicest he had ever heard. He looked up in wonder at Fingon's cousin, who now challenged Fingolfin's suspicion on his behalf.

"It's a religious practice, really," Finrod continued. "They wear very little in the way of adornment for most days, but decorate themselves fantastically with all colours and kinds of jewels when going to pray at the temples of the Valar. To Manwë especially."

"Why is that?" asked Fingolfin.

"I'm not sure I know exactly," said Finrod.

Fingolfin looked at Glorfindel. "Why would you decorate yourselves to pray, but not for a festival?"

Glorfindel swallowed hard. "I... I guess it's because... we want to show respect to Manwë by adorning ourselves most richly for him only."

"That makes perfect sense to me," said Finrod, nodding in Glorfindel's direction. "Truly, if you get dressed up in your finest for any occasion, it ceases to be special." He turned to Fingolfin. "Have you never been to Valmar? I know my father spent some time there."

"Once," Fingolfin said. "Long ago.  Just once."

"Shame," said Finrod. "It's a beautiful city. Wonderful folk, too."

Glorfindel listened, fascinated by the conversation as Finrod spoke on, telling of his time in Valmar and the surrounding country. He spoke with such adoration, lovingly describing the very places that Glorfindel missed so acutely, his perfect voice almost singing. He spoke even the words that Glorfindel missed, in a curious half-Noldorin, half-Vanyarin dialect. And Glorfindel listened, thinking he could sit and be content to have Finrod talk for hours about Valmar, or Vanyarin customs, or indeed anything that Finrod cared to talk about.

"But are you from the actual city of Valmar, or one of the surrounding areas?" he heard Finrod say, and only realised in time that he was being addressed and needed to answer.

"Oh... Yes, from Valmar."

"Which area?" Finrod asked.

Glorfindel scratched at an imagined itch on his hand to stall for a moment while he thought of the appropriate answer. His uncle Elindyo's house was in an area called Nandatharë, an interior section of the city within the old walls, admired for its ornate architecture and rich gardens. "Nandatharë," he said.

Finrod nodded approvingly. "Near the Aldayanta, yes. I've been there."

"Is there anywhere you've not been?" Fingon asked. A note of mocking subtly edged his voice.

Finrod frowned as he considered the question seriously. "I've not been too far south yet," he said. "Down near the Telerin settlements- what do they call it, 'Balar'? I think I'd like to go there. And, of course, to Lestanórë."

"How very fascinating," said Fingon.

Across the table, Glorfindel watched as Artanis lifted her hand to her mouth to hide the smirk she shared with Fingon, bright eyes sparkling. Oblivious beside her, Finrod continued speaking, primarily to Fingolfin, about his recent visit to Turgon in the west.

Artanis, Glorfindel noted, did not speak, though she seemed to become an active part of the conversation by the mere presence of her bright eyes and wryly smiling mouth. She listened just as eloquently as Finrod spoke, always looking as if she had just the right thing to say, but was waiting for the right time to say it. She spoke her opinions openly enough in well-timed looks. Occasionally her eyes would meet Fingon's and she would hold his gaze. And Glorfindel wondered, then, if they traded thoughts silently and secretly.

The arrival of servants bearing trays of food was the only thing that could have interrupted the conversation of Finrod and Fingolfin and the silent glances of Artanis and Fingon. All four went quiet as tray after tray was set upon the table. An approving murmur rose from the seated guests. Platters of roast bird and lamb and piglet were set first before Fingolfin, along with sauces, puddings, jellies, pickles, breads, steamed vegetables, leaves in oil, cold sliced meat and cheese. The table was filled, from Fingolfin's end down, with more food than Glorfindel imagined the guests could eat in five or more meals. And he was right, more or less. The court ate, two or three platefuls each, but seemed to make little difference in the sheer volume of food on the table. When one dish was empty, the servants would bring more, or replace it with a new item. A constant flow came in and out from the doors that led down to the kitchen, bearing away empty plates and bringing new.

Glorfindel ate very little. He ate most of the vegetables, which tasted far less fine than they looked, and picked at the bread, which he still found too soft and flavourless. The meat remained untouched, pushed far to the side of his plate. He preferred watching the others to eating his own food, amused by how Fingolfin cut his food into small pieces before he ate a bite, how Finrod's plate remained full for lack of eating and excess of talking, how Artanis took tiny portions of all items on the table and ate each one at a time, and how Fingon liberally spread pickled onion over everything. Watching the others enjoy their meal seemed at least as satisfying as eating food he did not particularly like. He set his cutlery down on his plate, as some of the more fashionable ladies had already done, and sat back in his chair.

Fingolfin looked over at him. "Not eating very much, are you?"

"No, sir," he answered.

"You don't like the quail?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "It's not that, but-"

"He won't eat it," Finrod interrupted, "or any fowl for that matter. It's a religious principle. All birds are holy to Manwë."

Glorfindel nodded silently.

"And the veal? Or are cattle holy to Varda?"

"Yavanna, actually," said Finrod.

Fingon tried to suppress a snicker.

"Beans?" Fingolfin asked.

Finrod paused to think. "I believe beans are edible in all cultures."

Fingolfin turned to watch Glorfindel expectantly, and Glorfindel slowly took up his fork again. The beans, while not offensive, were merely unappetising. But he ate his serving, and dutifully took a second. Fingolfin smiled as if he had won a great victory.

After the supper plates had been cleared, Fingolfin was the first to leave, just as he had been last to arrive. Glorfindel only stood after Fingon had done so. Finrod and Artanis stood as well.

"What about a walk this evening?" Finrod asked. "Not too far, just around the gardens? I feel some movement is in order after all that food."

Fingon nodded. "I'll join you. Though it's cool tonight, and I think I'll fetch a cape. Wait outside for me?"

"Of course," said Finrod. He smiled at Fingon, then at Glorfindel, and offered his arm to Artanis.

"Thank you," she said. Those were the first, and only, words Glorfindel heard her speak.

~

Once back in his bedroom, Fingon lost no time in shedding his formal supper clothes in favour of less elegant attire. "You may change back into your regular clothing, Laurefindil," he said. "You look rather lost under that robe."

"I will, thank you," said Glorfindel. He had only to let his arms hang straight at his sides, and the large, heavy robe fell from his shoulders into a stiff pile on the floor. He was more conservative with the breeches, sliding them down only when he had bent over far enough so that the jerkin covered as much of his legs as could be covered, and only when Fingon was well occupied with changing his own clothes. Removing the jerkin and shirt was more difficult. He tugged both off as quickly as he could and snatched up his tunic from the floor, but in his haste only managed to get his arms caught in the twisted sleeves.

Fingon watched him in amusement. "You really are terribly prudish," he said with a smirk, "racing like mad to dress out of fear I might see-" He stopped abruptly, mouth frozen silently open. His eyes were fixed intently on Glorfindel's bare chest.

Glorfindel bit his lip, feeling the blood rise to his cheeks. He slowly held the tunic up to cover his bare skin and create a barrier against Fingon's harshly scrutinising eyes.

"Wait," Fingon said. He took a step forward, still staring, and pushed Glorfindel's hands away.

"What?" Glorfindel asked. His voice shook.

"Your ring." He was staring at the ring on the chain. "Where did you get that?"

"I... it was... my Amma..." The fierce look on Fingon's face and the hard sound in his voice made Glorfindel's heart pound. He closed his hand protectively about the ring, but Fingon plucked it from his fingers to hold up at eye level.

"Where did you get it?" Fingon repeated.

"It was my father's," Glorfindel whispered. "He gave it to my Amma, and she gave it to me. It was my father's ring. Their wedding ring." His entire body shook and his teeth chattered at Fingon's terrible look. "I swear. I didn't steal it..."

Fingon blinked in surprise. He looked at Glorfindel, no longer accusing but appraising, and said nothing for several moments. "No..." he spoke at last in a strange voice. "No of course you didn't steal it. I only..." He dropped the ring and stepped back. "It's a very fine ring, of fine craftsmanship. I've not seen its likes in a long time."

Still shaking, Glorfindel pulled the tunic quickly over his head. "It was my father's..."

"I believe you," said Fingon. Then as quickly as he had changed before, he turned almost fierce again. "Never let anyone see it."

"No..." said Glorfindel. "I... I almost never wear it. Just for tonight... I keep it hidden."

Fingon nodded sharply. "Put it back in its hiding place. Never wear it again."

"But..."

"If you wear it," Fingon said, "your lie will be found out. You said your father was a Vanyarin lord, but you have there a clearly Noldorin ring. Do you want to have to explain that to everyone?"

Of course Fingon was right. Glorfindel nodded miserably, and tucked the ring's chain inside his tunic. He would never show it to anyone, not even Oropher. He could not risk breaking the lie.

"Now go back to your room, and put your ring away. Findaráto is waiting for us. I will meet you in the corridor."

"Yes, my lord," Glorfindel whispered. He bowed, heart still beating furiously in his chest, and left Fingon alone. He hurried to his own bedroom, going as fast as he could without arousing suspicion, and pulled the ring chain off his neck. Leaving this most precious treasure stung him, but the prospect of being discovered as one who lied to the king was worse. He pushed it under the straw mattress as far back as he could reach.

"I can't risk it," he said to himself. Then he stood, breathing deeply to stop the shaking in his hands. Finrod was waiting down in the gardens.

~

The second Glorfindel shut the door, Fingon was on his knees before a large travelling chest in the corner of the room, tearing through the contents in a maniacal search. He eventually found what he sought: a silver jewel box hidden in a rough sack. Inside was a collection of the jewellery items he had brought from Aman. Chains mainly, but some earrings as well, bracelets, pins, and six rings. The rings sat all in cushioned holders along the back.

One plain gold band inscribed with his name, which his grandfather had given him when he was born. One of twining silver to match his circlet, the mark of a prince. One gold with a blue stone, a gift from his father on his fiftieth birthday. One thin band circled in jewels, from his mother, a ring that had been her father's. One of dark silver and reddish gold wound together, from his cousin Maedhros. And one intricately crafted gold ring, one of a matched pair that Fëanor had given the eldest sons of his two brothers long ago. Fingon took this ring from its place and held it up against the lantern-light. It showed four miniature scenes: the great stairs of Tirion, the peaks of the Pelóri, the Two Trees of Valmar, and the stone archway of Alqualondë.

It was identical to the one Glorfindel wore.


	7. Secret

When Glorfindel came back downstairs, Finrod was already standing outside on a balcony overlooking the gardens' spread of flowering trees and spidery winding paths. Fingon had not yet arrived; Glorfindel's spirits lifted immediately to see this. If only for a moment before Fingon came, he would have a chance to speak about Valmar. He approached loudly, scuffing his feet on the stonework to be sure that Finrod would hear.  
  
"Ah, finally," Finrod said as he turned to face Glorfindel. He smiled as he glanced further back, as if expecting to see Fingon, though he showed no signs of disappointment when Fingon was nowhere to be seen. His eyes returned to Glorfindel with interest. "Findekáno not with you?"  
  
Glorfindel shook his head. "No... he said he'd be along in a moment."  
  
"No matter," said Finrod. "We can go ahead. Findekáno knows his way through the gardens. He'll find us. Walk with me?"  
  
"Yes, of course." Glorfindel hurried forward, following a welcome gesture right up to Finrod's side. He proudly mirrored each of Finrod's steps down the stone staircase while remaining a respectful arm's length behind.  
  
"My sister went by a minute ago with a few of the court's more seriously-minded ladies," Finrod began, "and I saw my uncle with his counsellors not long before. We could look for them."  
  
"Mmm," said Glorfindel.  
  
"Or rather," said Finrod, stopping suddenly, "I think we ought to go this way." He pointed down a curving tree-lined path off the main avenue. "Artanis was out walking earlier and said they've built a terraced fountain into the hillside down here, and I always love to see a good bit of landscaping. Even in the dark. Do you mind?"  
  
"No, not at all," Glorfindel muttered. He raised a hand to cover his mouth and chin in what he hoped looked like a thoughtful pose, to cover the smirk he was unable to subdue. While Finrod had spoken in a more Noldorin way at supper, he was now making an attempt at a true Vanyarin dialect. An attempt which, Glorfindel realised with a surge of pleasure, was surely intended to impress him. Unfortunately, it also left him in the awkward position of having to speak very carefully and match each of Finrod's mistakes to avoid any potential for embarrassment.  
  
"Have you been this way before?" Finrod asked, to which Glorfindel replied only with a shake of his head.  
  
"Have you been around the gardens at all?"  
  
Glorfindel shook his head again. "No." He followed Finrod down the path.  
  
"What do you usually do of an evening?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
Finrod paused to look back at him. "Nothing?" he asked quietly. "Is that true? My cousin allows you to do nothing? How very unlike him." He turned forward again and moved quickly ahead down the path, brushing aside strands of ivy and clematis that hung from the trees above. Glorfindel followed, though this time he lagged further behind. His smile had faded, replaced by a worried bite at the thought of what Finrod knew, or guessed. Neither spoke further until they reached a small clearing at the edge of a pond.  
  
"Now this must be it," said Finrod, bright once again. "You see, the tiered fountain falls all the way down the cliff face- I imagine it's fed by one of the springs- and into this pond here. And they must have a drain, underground I imagine, which might feed one of the other waterways..."  
  
"I see," said Glorfindel. Hundreds of questions and comments hung on the tip of his tongue: about Valmar, about the Noldor who left Aman, about Fingon, but he could not bring himself to speak any of them. Most of what he wanted to say risked revealing his history, which Fingon explicitly warned him against. But Finrod, who had sat himself down on a bench facing out over the terraced slopes, looked so understanding. He gazed up at Glorfindel, open and inviting, as if encouraging him to speak.  
  
"You're very quiet," Finrod eventually said, his own voice far softer than it had been.  
  
"Mm." Glorfindel nodded. _Say something_ , he told himself. Anything. _Tell him you've never seen such a complex garden fountain. A proper lord would say a dull thing like that. He suspects something isn't right.  
_  
But Finrod smiled apologetically at Glorfindel's silence. "I suppose you must think me rather odd, dragging you off here with no explanation..."  
  
Glorfindel blinked back at him. No, he had thought himself the odd one, unable to voice even a simple comment on the scenery.  
  
"In truth," Finrod continued, "I thought I'd seize the opportunity to ask you a quick question before Findekáno joined us."  
  
"A question... me?" Glorfindel asked, suddenly struck by the unpleasant feeling that this conversation would soon turn in a direction he'd rather avoid.  
  
"Your shirt," said Finrod, pointing a finger at Glorfindel's sleeve. Glorfindel's stomach sank. "Where did you get it?"  
  
"My Amma-" Glorfindel began automatically, before catching himself and finishing, "... gave it to me."  
  
"And where did she get it?" Finrod asked again.  
  
"I don't know. I suppose she bought it."  
  
"With the beading as it is?"  
  
Glorfindel cringed. "I don't know. I guess. Why?"  
  
"I don't mean to press, if you truly don't know," Finrod said kindly. "It's only that I know who did that beadwork; I recognise the crafting. I was merely interested to find out whether you were familiar with her as well." He pulled back the folds of his cloak and held out his arm to reveal a fine silk sleeve, the cuff of which had been delicately beaded in gold and blue. He then gestured to a similarly decorated sash, and the hem of his jerkin. "As you see, I have been a patron for some time. I believe my sash carries the same pattern as your shirt."  
  
Glorfindel's urge to speak the forbidden swelled to ten times its original strength. Finrod knew Amma. Amma never once even hinted at a connection to someone so grand, but he must have been on familiar terms to so easily recognise her work. And if he knew Amma, and was among the princes who led the Noldor out of Aman, then there was a chance he would know-  
  
"Do you own any other such articles, or just the one?"  
  
Finrod's question came just in time to interrupt Glorfindel's thought and prevent him from shouting anything impetuous and stupid. "Oh..." he fumbled. "Well the sleeves of the robe... it matches this. The robe, I mean. And I have a... a shirt collar done too." Finrod nodded in interest at his words. "They were presents as well," he quickly added.  
  
It was a sickening feeling, having to hold his tongue when he knew that one simple question had the potential to end a lifetime of curiosity. The excitement that had sparked as he first considered asking Finrod about his father turned quickly to dread. If he asked for any such news, Finrod, who surely knew Amma's family was far less than the nobility Glorfindel had invented, might say the wrong thing to Fingolfin. Fingolfin had been speaking to Finrod about Glorfindel that morning, and had almost certainly related his brief lie of an ancestry. If Fingolfin found out, his wrath would be echoed by Fingon, to whom Glorfindel had promised to remain silent on the matter. And if Fingolfin and Fingon found out, Glorfindel would be forced to bear the punishment not only for lying to the king, but also for breaking his word to his prince. In this case he could always flee from Eithel Sirion with the information Finrod provided, but where would he go, and to what end? And there was also the possibility that Finrod would know nothing, and his deception would be revealed needlessly.  
  
"Is something the matter?" Finrod asked. "You look a bit as if..." His voice trailed off.  
  
"No," Glorfindel lied. "I'm fine." _Ask him_ , a part of his heart insisted, while another voice, a voice that sounded far closer to Fingon's, said, _Better to keep your mouth shut_. He sighed.  
  
"You need not hold back if there is something you want to say."  
  
"No," he repeated. "It's nothing. I just..." He shifted his weight nervously on his feet. "It's nothing. Just something I thought. But Findekáno said I... shouldn't..."  
  
"Ah," Finrod said, voice turning darker at his cousin's name. "I daresay I can guess what troubles you. Come and sit with me a moment?" He slid a few inches to the side, patting the bench next to him. Glorfindel sat, and Finrod wrapped an arm around his shoulder. It felt protective and warm, and worlds away from Fingon's menacing clutch.  
  
"How much do you know of our half-cousin Maitimo, Fëanáro's son?" Finrod asked.  
  
Glorfindel shook his head. "Nothing." He had heard the name and the common tales, but owing to Celeiros' cryptic comment the previous evening, he suspected that Finrod meant to tell him something very new and confidential.  
  
"Findekáno and Maitimo were lovers," Finrod said in a low half-whisper. "Secretly for a long time, I imagine, though they grew more blatant about it in the years after we left Aman. After he rescued Maitimo from the cliff-face, Findekáno never bothered to hide his involvement. But some years ago my uncle demanded they finish. And Findekáno did quit his liaison, though on very harsh terms. The two have not so much as spoken since- likely out of rampant stubbornness. But I'm certain Findekáno loves him still. His loneliness and unchecked feelings cause him such pain. So he-" Finrod spoke very carefully- "tries to find a substitute. I think you can guess where that leaves you."  
  
Silently, Glorfindel nodded. He had guessed as much: that Fingon had an absent lover who remained somewhere far-off and inaccessible. He was the replacement. Not only that, but he was a replacement gift from Fingolfin, who saw fit to supply his son with a new partner, having been the one to drive off the first. Suddenly, the night seemed that much darker. He leaned against Finrod, who tightened his one-armed embrace.  
  
"I don't try to make excuses for him," said Finrod. "Nor do I agree with his choices. But I know it can be so difficult, for so many who came into the east. Everyone has to adapt. Those who left families behind, loved ones... You'll find no-one here who doesn't sadly recall another who now lives the sea's width away or who has been lost to this new land. And it's the curse of our memory to dwell on the past. Out of necessity we find... ways to cope with the loss."  
  
Glorfindel felt hardly better for all of Finrod's wisdom. He glanced up, hoping to hear something further about countering the pain of memory, but instead he saw Finrod's eyes fixed intently on the bottom of the hill, an angry frown curling on his lip. Down below, Glorfindel saw as he followed the gaze, Finrod's sister and her ladies had met the King's entourage. Artanis was holding out her hand to be kissed by one of Fingolfin's fawning sycophants. The sight prompted a hiss of disgust from Finrod, and a sudden thought from Glorfindel.  
  
"Was the King ever married?" he asked, and the moment the words passed his lips he blushed at the idiocy of the question. Fingolfin had children, so of course he was married. "I mean," he corrected himself, "where is his wife?"  
  
"His wife- her name is Anairë- remained in Tirion," said Finrod. He seemed hardly to notice Glorfindel's lack of sense, his eyes lingering on the scene below. "She was close friends with my mother, and chose to stay for her sake. That, at least, was the official story. Unofficially, she and my uncle were never close. Nolofinwë adored her, but she didn't return his affections. He never even tried to convince her to come with us. He left Tirion alone, like so many of the others."  
  
"And he found a substitute as well," Glorfindel said dully. "One who couldn't refuse him."  
  
Finrod nodded, though did not speak for a long time. "Yes," he finally muttered, staring down at the bench as Artanis and the ladies disappeared into the trees. The suffering on his face was unmistakable.  
  
"Do you have a wife or beloved left behind?" Glorfindel asked.  
  
There was an even longer pause before Finrod cleared his throat and said, shakily, "No." 

 ~  
  
They looked so much alike, Fingon thought, that he must have been an idiot not to have wondered at it when Glorfindel first arrived. And now they even sat together side by side on the garden bench, the clueless father's arm around his equally clueless son, in what could have been the perfect picture of a family if only they had known. He had to laugh at the pure coincidence and absurdity. And he would have paused to laugh longer if not for the possibility that either one could at any moment carelessly say something to trigger an epiphany in the other. He loudly stepped from the shadows into the clearing. "Cousin," he said. "Laurefindil. You didn't wait."  
  
To his satisfaction, Finrod looked positively relieved to be interrupted, jumping up from the bench and hurrying to his side. "Your father's excellent gardens were far too inviting," Finrod said with a smile that was rather too cheerful. "We couldn't resist."  
  
"Discussing anything interesting?"  
  
"Just gossiping maliciously about you," said Finrod. He tried to speak lightly, as if making a joke, though a nervous edge to his voice told Fingon that this was more or less what they had been doing. "We did see your father pass by a moment ago," Finrod continued, quick to change the subject. "You think we ought to find him and finish our walk?"  
  
Fingon shook his head. "No," he said. "Now that I'm out here, I don't feel much like walking at all. In fact I wanted to find you only to say that I'm tired and will be heading to bed shortly. But perhaps some wine first, by the fire?"  
  
"Of course," Finrod said with a nod. "If you go ahead I'll quickly find my sister and-"  
  
But Fingon interrupted curtly, "Not Artanis. Just you and I."  
  
Finrod gave him a short curious look, but nodded again just the same. "If you wish," he said slowly.  
  
"I do," said Fingon. He turned to Glorfindel. "Laurefindil, you are dismissed for the evening. I'll send someone for you in the morning when you are needed again."  
  
"Thank you, my lord," said Glorfindel, and he gave Fingon a quick, awkward bow before hurrying down the path back toward the tower. Finrod watched him leave, pensively silent.  
  
"I don't believe our little Vanyarin lord is too impressed by my company," said Fingon.  
  
Finrod looked at him, eyebrow raised. "A Vanyarin lord? Is that what he told you? You don't honestly believe him?"  
  
"That is indeed what he told my father yesterday morning."  
  
"Vanyarin certainly, but if he's ever so much as met a real lord, then I'm the son of Manwë."  
  
"I'll be certain to tell Arafinwë of your mother's infidelity," said Fingon. He smirked as they began to walk down the same path Glorfindel had taken, though far more slowly.  
  
Finrod laughed in return. "He is a lovely boy no doubt, means well, and was earlier in our walk doing a rather admirable impression of my own speech. But otherwise, when losing his careful manner, he talks like a peasant."  
  
"And behaves like a peasant, and walks like a peasant, and is unable to write his own name- much like a peasant, I'd say."  
  
"Your father couldn't see it?"  
  
"You know how trusting my father is," Fingon said. "He'll believe anything, so long as it presents no obvious or immediate danger."  
  
They continued at a leisurely pace, through the dark garden, into the tower, and up the spiral stairs to Fingon's bedroom. Inside, the fire already burned brightly, and wine had been set on the bedside table. Fingon poured out two cups and sat on the rug by the fire. He regarded Finrod carefully, watching for any worrisome sign or any clue as to what Glorfindel said in the garden, but found Finrod's movements unreadable.  
  
"What did you talk about?" he asked. "You and the boy. What did he say?"  
  
"Oh," said Finrod. He sat beside Fingon and took his wine, but did not drink. "Hardly anything. I did most of the talking." He stared intently into the fire.  
  
"I am hardly convinced that this fire could be so fantastically interesting to you, cousin, that it distracts you from speech," said Fingon. "Therefore I must assume that the two of you had a discussion that you are unwilling to share, and most likely a discussion about me. What did he say?"  
  
Finrod thinned his lips and took a small sip of wine. "He said nothing."  
  
"And from that nothing I suppose you were able to infer exactly what he meant to say?"  
  
Finrod looked at him sharply. "I was able to infer enough, if you truly want to know." He propped himself up on his knees so that he and Fingon were face to face. "And if you want me to say it aloud," he continued, "I will. I do find it a despicable thing you have done. Why that boy? Surely in your entire kingdom you could find one who would willingly share your bed. Why him?"  
  
"A rather harsh accusation," said Fingon. He leaned back on his elbows, sprawling lazily in contrast with Finrod's rigid pose. "I should be deeply offended that you would think me so low. You're lucky I'm such a forgiving person; I'll overlook your thoughtless judgement." He paused to watch Finrod, who still sat tensely; he smiled, and Finrod scowled.  
  
"I kissed him," he said. "I kissed him this morning, and that is all, I swear to Varda. Nothing further, nothing to which he didn't agree. You may ask him if you wish. Just a kiss. He did share my bed last night, but even then I did no more than touch his shoulder. I have far more honour than you afford me."  
  
Finrod looked hardly convinced. "But you intend to make him your lover."  
  
"I do," Fingon said with a shrug, "eventually. But I'm not short on time. I'm fairly certain I can convince him to see things my way."  
  
"How would that be?"  
  
Fingon grinned and gestured to the room with a grand flip of his arm. "All of this. Anything he wants, I can give him. Wealth and power, jewels and trinkets, anything at all."  
  
Finrod scoffed. "You think you can buy love and affection."  
  
"Gifts make slaves like whips make dogs," said Fingon.  
  
With a disapproving sneer, Finrod turned back to the fire and sipped his wine, keeping the cup held in front of his mouth as if it were an excuse not to speak further. Fingon licked his lips. There was opportunity, he saw, to steer the conversation in a more desirable direction.  
  
"But you would hardly understand my position," he said slowly.  
  
"What position is that?" Finrod snapped back. "The position of abusing authority?"  
  
"You are a lucky one among us, Findaráto. Never took a lover, never married, never lost the dearest thing in the world." He paused, and watched with satisfaction as Finrod's grip on the wine cup tightened. "No, you are spared the torment. You never lie awake at night in a cold and empty bed, remembering times that have passed and dreaming in agony over what could have been if only you had chosen differently. You are not the one whose every joyful moment is marred by the nagging grief of being unable to share it with the one you love most. You are not one who yearns insatiably or suffers without hope of reprieve."  
  
Finrod's entire body was tense. His shoulders were knotted, and he clutched the silver cup with a grip that would have crushed glass. He longed to speak, though he bit down on his tongue. Fingon could nearly hear the words in his mind. A step further, and he would confess. Fingon leaned in closer to his cousin, and lowered his voice to a pained whisper.  
  
"This is what I must endure," he hissed. "I loved him, Findaráto, and he is lost to me. At one time I thought I would be strong enough to weather the hardship, but no more. The pain only grows more acute with passing time. Every night that I lie alone makes me want to swear that it will be the last, that I will somehow find a way to save myself. Only how could I be so faithless? How could I be so wretched as to dare to love again? But if I can stay the suffering with empty comforts, why shouldn't I?" He pulled back just far enough to sit upright again. "You would hardly understand how I feel. This wasting fate never touched you."  
  
"Shut up," Finrod whispered. "Just shut up, Findekáno, when you know nothing..." The corners of his eyes were wet, glistening in the firelight.  
  
"I know enough," said Fingon. Hesitantly, Finrod looked up at him. "You hide it well, my cousin," he murmured. "I never guessed until today. But it is impossible to keep such secrets from one who knows what he seeks, and your eyes betray the truth. What was her name?"  
  
The despair in Finrod's face shone more vividly as he spoke the name. "Amárië," he said softly.  
  
"When?"  
  
Finrod shifted as he sat, hesitating a moment as if debating the wisdom of divulging his secret. "Just before we left Tirion," he said at last. "After Fëanáro's speech I was... inspired by the thought of leaving. Valinor held too many restrictions for me. For years I had sought to marry her, but... You must understand, the Vanyarin caste system... it forbids marriages between nobility and commoners, and I was a prince, and she was just a girl who did beadwork... Tirion would be no better. They expected me to choose some lady of the court. But I thought that if we went into the wild lands of the East, nobody would care about status or birthright. So I went to Valmar to ask her to come with me. And... she refused."  
  
"But you married her nonetheless," said Fingon.  
  
Finrod nodded slowly. "I did. I convinced myself that even if we were to be parted forever, I'd rather spend one night with her than choose another. And I gallantly thought the happiness of that one night would be enough to give me strength to overcome my loneliness. And I was so wrong. The nights ever since have grown blacker. I dream of her and I wake up in such pain that I feel sick. It hasn't dulled, it hasn't lessened, even in all these years..."  
  
"Forty-four years," Fingon muttered.  
  
"Four-four years, yes." Finrod smiled weakly. "Four-four years since I last saw her, yet I can still remember perfectly every detail of her face and the scent of her skin..."  
  
"As I remember Maitimo."  
  
Finrod gave no answer.  
  
"You should understand then," said Fingon, "why I seek solace."  
  
The fire cracked and snapped. Finrod was silent for a long time. "I do," he finally said.  
  
Fingon stood, yawning loudly. "It's getting late," he said, and Finrod nodded in agreement. "Perhaps tomorrow morning we can go riding or hunting. Free our minds of the past for a while." He extended a hand down to Finrod, who grasped it as he pulled himself up. "If you wear your riding clothes down to breakfast we may be able to escape before my father insists on joining us."  
  
"I will," said Finrod. He forced a smile. "Until tomorrow, then."  
  
"Good night."  
  
Finrod left and, alone in his bedroom, Fingon felt a grin break effortlessly across his face. He fell back onto his bed and lay staring up at the canopy. Glorfindel was the son of his cousin. It was a certain thing. The only remaining question was how to best manage this information. Apart from Finrod's wife, who resided on the wrong side of a dividing ocean, he was the only one who knew. He could say something now, but that would only result in him losing his servant and facing his cousin's wrath at having dared to choose the boy as his lover. And, he never knew when such leverage might become useful.  
  
No, he thought, it would be better to keep the knowledge to himself. Let them both remain safely ignorant. He would not be the one to interfere.  
  
With that thought, he turned over to lie on his side, and pulled a blanket over his back. He would dream of the future that night.  
  
~   
  
In the corridor, Finrod stood with his forehead pressed against the cool stone wall. His hands were cold and damp with sweat, but his face burned. The way Fingon spoke, the way he conjured memories- the sickening pain was nearly too much to bear. He felt exhausted, though a frustrating energy lingered in his limbs, and starving, though he cringed at the thought of food. There was no way to undo this feeling. He could only weep uselessly, and lean heavily against the wall while the rough rock jabbed at his skin.  
  
"She is killing me," he said to himself, choking on the words. "The thought..."   
  
He managed to stand, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and swallowing the stinging sob in his throat. If he could stand he could walk, and if he could walk he could find his way to collapse in bed. But as he shuffled down the corridor he only paused at his bedroom. The door was dark. No light or warmth came from beyond it. To be alone in this haunting place would ruin and curse.  
  
He stood a bit straighter, forced all emotion from his face, and smoothed his hair back. With a stern force he continuing on his way. A few steps further. Then he stopped at the next room down, and softly knocked on his sister's door.


	8. Quenya

The night seemed to go by in waves. Glorfindel slept fitfully, and woke, and dreamed, and woke, and lay half asleep in his bed as his mind spun through the events of the long day. Everything from Fingon in the morning to Oropher in the afternoon and Finrod in the evening came back to him. He dreamed it all, scenes replaying endlessly. He dreamed extensions, wandering through dark corridors, unable to find Oropher in the maze of Barad Eithel. Fingon and Fingolfin stared at him from doorways no matter how far he went. After hours of endless rapid thoughts, it became difficult to tell what was dream and what was memory.

Finrod was somewhere close, standing in the corner or by the window or just outside the door. He came to stand by the bed with a hand held out invitingly. "Im ú-chaeron, ionden," he said, smiling softly.

At the words, Glorfindel snapped wide awake as if he had been burned, and sat up so fast it made him dizzy. No half-dream figures stood nearby, though he squinted to look and listen in darkness. Everything seemed suddenly very quiet. And very warm. His skin was sticky with sweat under his nightshirt and the sheets felt too hot. He stepped out of bed, pushing damp hair back off his forehead, and crossed to the window to open the shutters. The cool mountain air was a relief to feel, and somehow easier to breathe. For some time he just stood, leaning tiredly against the stone frame.

The last dream, which had seemed so real, seemed also impossible to forget. It made no sense, if Glorfindel understood properly what Finrod had said. _Im ú-chaeron, ionden. I am not far, my son_. Why would he dream such a thing? He could only reach to guess at a reason. He had been speaking to Finrod directly before he came up to bed, which explained Finrod's presence in the dreams. Finrod spoke Sindarin because Glorfindel had spent so much time with Oropher that afternoon, always striving to speak Sindarin until his head hurt. The subject of his father stayed in his mind always, and he had been speaking of his search to Fingon. He could hardly deny the tiny flicker of hope, however unreasonable, as he sat in the garden with Noldorin Finrod, who knew Amma, who had lived in Valmar, who had left Aman after Fëanor forty-four years ago, though he said he was unmarried.

It all came together, he supposed, in a wishful thought. Such dreams had come to him before, innumerable times, though the father was always left faceless. The sight of Finrod was nothing more than a desire.

With a quiet sigh he rubbed his eyes and turned back to the bed. It was still dark and he had so far managed hardly any sleep at all. He lay down on top of the blankets and closed his eyes, hoping the night breeze would help calm him. The image of Finrod's outstretched hand was still bright in his memory.

~

No-one called for him in the morning. A pair of Sindarin boys came early to bring wash-water and light the fire, but Glorfindel was so exhausted from the restless night that he fell back asleep almost immediately. No-one brought breakfast. He lay in bed, feeling groggy and slipping in and out of sleep, until common sense forced him up and into his clothes. He washed his face and hands and feet in the basin of cool water. Then he waited. He grew hungry and impatient, but no summons from Fingon came. He waited until the sun shone at midday height in the sky before he convinced himself that no order was coming. Then, with the prospect of a free afternoon before him, he resolved to find Oropher.

Oropher was hardly difficult to locate. He had situated himself in the stairwell between the third and second floors and was sitting on the third step from the bottom, eating loucoums out of a cloth bag. A dusting of powdered sugar trailed from his chin to his lap and coated the cuffs of his jacket. He smiled as he saw Glorfindel approach, and held out his hand. "Aiya Laurefindil! Want one?"

"No, thank you." Glorfindel stood beside Oropher on the narrow end of the step and peered down at the bag, which looked sticky. "I need instead real food. Will you come with me down to the dining room?"

"Mm." Oropher nodded, his mouth full of candy, and stood up to brush the sugar from his coat. "It'll be busy right now, but we can go if you're hungry. I could use some food."

With a nod in return, Glorfindel led the way down the spiral stair. Oropher chattered on as they walked.

"But did you hear me? I said 'Aiya Laurefindil', that's Quenya isn't it? I heard the King say that one time. Not the 'Laurefindil' part, the other word, but that's your name, I remembered."

"Yes, very good," said Glorfindel.

"I was hoping you'd show up again today so's you can start teaching me. You think we can start right after dinner? I want to be able to say at least a few good things by tonight. I mean I wouldn't say it to anybody out loud, but I want to know some things still. Right now I only know a few names, like your name and my name. In Quenya I'm Oroferno, I guess. That's what the King calls me. Nice-sounding, isn't it? O-ro-fer-no. Sounds mostly the same. You suppose it means the same?"

"Oh... yes," Glorfindel said. If possible, Oropher spoke even more quickly than he had the previous day, allowing Glorfindel to catch only snatches of his speech. He hoped he had answered the question correctly, and that it had indeed been a question requiring only a yes or no answer.

"I know some of the words sound a bit the same, but I don't know if they mean the same. How long you reckon it'll take me to learn? All year? More than a year? How long you been learning edhelren, anyhow? Armion says the King's been learning near forty years now but he still can't say 'edhelren' right even. Says 'eselren'. But I heard you and you can say it right so you must be better than him. No, dining room's to the left. Anyway ever since yesterday I been listening real close to how the King talks and none of the sounds seem too different. Shouldn't be too hard, right?"

Oropher paused, looking expectantly at Glorfindel. Glorfindel cleared his throat. "Ehhh... yes."

"Was that 'yes' it shouldn't be too hard, or 'yes' it will be hard?" asked Oropher.

Glorfindel blinked. "No."

"Huh," said Oropher. He shrugged. "I reckon I'll find out when I try then."

The doors to the servants' dining hall had been propped open, and a long queue snaked back out and down the corridor. Oropher fell silent as they joined the line, seeming more interested in trying to peer over the heads of those in front and discover what was being served. "Looks like stew again," he eventually said. "Bread... same's we had yesterday. Weren't any meat in the stew yesterday, you know, you could've ate it after all." Then he added, more slowly for Glorfindel's benefit, "No meat."

"Hm," said Glorfindel. But he still watched carefully as the Sindarin cook ladled stew into the wooden bowls of those who waited. It was hard to tell; he could discern only carrots and peas for certain through the thick brown sauce.

Another man, black-haired and sharp-eyed, stood to the side as if supervising the operation. He was likely the kitchen overseer, and almost certainly Noldorin. He watched the queue carefully, eyes darting hawkishly from ladle to bowl as if to make certain nobody was given too much stew or received an overly large piece of bread. Hesitantly, Glorfindel leaned toward him.

"Pardon sir," he said softly, in Quenya. "What's... what's in the stew? Please?"

The Noldorin man's miserly expression changed as abruptly as if Fingolfin himself had just spoken. "You're not Sinda?" he asked.

"No," said Glorfindel. "But the stew-"

With a grin, the Noldorin man held up a friendly hand to quell his fears. "Not to worry," he said. Then he turned to the cook and snarled an order in Sindarin. "Give him a soldier's meal!"

Obediently, without looking at him, the cook handed Glorfindel a silver plate and bowl. The bowl was full of the same stew the others received, but the plate held two pieces of bread, an apple, boiled turnip, and a thick slice of roast ham. Glorfindel stared at it uncertainly, and tilted the plate to make the oily juice from the ham flow down toward the edge rather than touch the turnip.

"Now tomorrow," said the Noldorin man, "you just ask for that, and you get a decent whole meal instead of just the slop these savages eat."

"But I-" Glorfindel started, but the Noldorin man had already turned back to shout at the queue.

"Next!" he barked, in Sindarin.

The only empty seats Oropher could find in the hall were in the far corner, near the larger polished table where the Noldorin guards sat. These seats were always last to be filled, as the Sindar knew well enough by now to keep out of the way and stay a respectful distance from any black-haired individual carrying a weapon. But though the guards briefly paused to mark Glorfindel and Oropher's presence, the sight of Glorfindel's silver plate was assurance enough for them. They returned to their loud and vulgar conversation, a discussion of exactly what interest they had in a particularly pretty girl who washed floors in the barracks, and paid Glorfindel and Oropher no further heed. Glorfindel pushed the ham as far to the side of his plate as it would go and began eating the turnip.

"Why'd you get that, then?" asked Oropher. He eyed Glorfindel's plate longingly as he dipped a corner of the dry bread into his stew.

"I don't know," said Glorfindel.

"Bet they just gave it to you because you spoke to that man in Quenya. How fair is that? Bet they thought you were Golodhren then even though you don't look it. You ought to teach me how to ask for food in Quenya first. You going to eat that, anyhow?" He pointed at the ham slice.

Glorfindel shook his head and turned the plate so that the ham faced Oropher, who grabbed it with his fingers and dropped it into his stew.

"Thanks. Can I have your knife too?"

Glorfindel handed him the thin silver knife. He cut the ham into rough pieces, then used the point to spear each bite of food.

"Don't you like it?" he asked.

"Pigs are unclean animals," said Glorfindel.

Oropher shrugged. "So? Butchers clean them up before they're cooked, don't you guess?"

Glorfindel gave no answer, intent as he was on stirring his stew to discover the contents. What he had suspected to be pork turned out to be nothing more than a long slice of mushroom. But Oropher hardly cared whether or not Glorfindel answered. Oropher in fact seemed to prefer Glorfindel to remain silent, as it gave him far more opportunity to speak.

"Everyone says how pigs are dirty but I had pigs on my farm and they're fine by me. Had one real big sow that was friendly as a dog and used to let me ride her around when I was little. Course I got covered in mud but mud washes off, don't it? Ada never could kill her even when she was too old to have piglets any more so she just died naturally and me and my brother took her body out into the trees. You can't eat an animal that's died like that; it's bad luck. If you do that then all your animals'll start dying on you. I always wished I could've had a real horse to ride though, instead of just that sow. I've never ridden a horse, have you? The family that lived down the river had one. They said once I turned forty I could maybe try and ride him, but I guess that won't happen now. Anyway I'm pretty good at running on my own so really why would I need a horse? Horses can't run as fast through the trees as I can. I wonder whatever happened to that one... You going to eat that other piece of bread?"

Somehow through the course of all his talking, Oropher had managed to finish his meal, and his hand had started wandering toward Glorfindel's plate again. "Take it," said Glorfindel.

"Thanks. Where'd you come from, anyhow? I mean I know you come from across the sea, but what'd you do there? What'd your family do? Me, my family was farmers, but Armion reckons there aren't farmers across the sea, and that everything just sort of is there already. Like you get all the fruit you need from trees that are right there, and the animals just come to your side ready to take. That true? You know any farmers? What'd your parents do?"

Glorfindel held back an answer for several seconds, carefully scooping up the last of his stew and setting the silver bowl aside before he spoke. "Nothing," he said vaguely. "Armion is right. Nobody works in Aman."

Oropher was clearly impressed. "I wish I lived there," he said, and sat up a bit straighter.

"I do too," said Glorfindel, though he said it very quietly.

Oropher nodded, though likely only to show he was still paying attention as he scraped the gravy from Glorfindel's bowl with Glorfindel's uneaten bread crust. "So now that we've eaten, how about you teach me Quenya now?"

"In here?"

Oropher glanced around the hall. "Maybe we'll go outside. Too many people in here, and they all love to snitch on each other when they hear interesting things. I don't really... want anyone to tell the King about this, you know? Better for me if he doesn't know I know what he's talking about."

"I'll tell him nothing of you if you tell him nothing of me," said Glorfindel, at which Oropher grinned.

They set their dishes on the corner of the table and left the dining hall, Oropher grabbing whatever bits of leftover bread he could find from finished plates along the way. He had done this after their meal the previous day as well, prompting Glorfindel to suspect that, if given his way, he would eat at least twice as much as anyone else in the castle. He already ate more than his fair share. When Glorfindel asked him why, he factually stated that he was trying to grow faster, and did not elaborate on the point. Glorfindel understood, though. After seeing Fingon's rather more impressive bare form, he had been stricken with the same wish for his body to hurry up and grow into its adult size rather than linger in gawky adolescence.

Oropher led the way up and out of the tower, onto the stony walkway of one of the terrace walls that overlooked the gardens. Glorfindel glanced around. No-one could be seen, apart from three ladies on a midday stroll, and even they disappeared quickly behind a bank of flowering trees. Oropher crouched down, leaning back against the sun-warmed stones of the terrace wall behind him, and Glorfindel sat at his side.

"Where you reckon we ought to start?" Oropher asked.

~

Oropher was a far better linguist than Glorfindel would have guessed. They practiced until the sun began to dip toward the mountains, and within that time he had mastered numbers ( _minë, atta, neldë_ ), colours ( _ezel, nazar, tulca_ ), and times of day ( _arin, arië, thindyë, lómë_ ), along with a few of the more important words like "water", "food" and "Manwë". Glorfindel made him count to twelve, forward and back and by twos or threes, until he was satisfied that Oropher did indeed know the numbers and had not merely memorised the order of the sounds. Then he pointed to various nearby objects and made Oropher state the colour (usually grey or green, as they were surrounded by very little other than stone and leaf) until Oropher grew impatient with the childish game and demanded to learn something difficult.

"I can teach you a prayer," said Glorfindel.

"Will it at least be challenging?" Oropher asked gruffly.

"Yes."

Oropher sighed. "Alright, let's hear."

Glorfindel turned himself to face the mountains, sitting neatly with his feet tucked under him. "You must look to the West when you say this," he told Oropher, who apathetically shuffled into place.

With a solemn breath, Glorfindel sat straighter and raised his head, as if looking to Taniquetil across the sea. Then he recited his prayer, automatically, in Sindarin and Quenya.

"All praise and thanks be to Manwë, Lord of Arda. Ilya laitalë aza hantalë na Manwen, Heru Ardava. Most blessed and most holy. Ammana az anaizë. Only King and only ruling Judge of the End of Arda. Aran thanda aza námo hérula eressë Ambar-mettava. You alone we praise, edy' eressë laitalmë, and You alone we ask to command us, az Edy' eressë maquetilmë canitalmë. Guide us to the straight path. Men tana i téra tië. The path of those to whom you gave your love, I tië tiva yarin antanedyë melessedya, not of those who bear your scorn, lá yariva i colir yaiwedya, as the Golodhrim, ve Noldor, nor of those who have strayed, lá yariva i aránier, as the..."

Glorfindel stopped at these words. He stared at Oropher, who looked back at him so innocently, and realised just too late what he'd done.

"As the Telerrim," he finished quietly, "ve Telezi." He sighed, muttering, "I should not have said that with you here."

"Don't worry," said Oropher. "It was long. And not very interesting. I've forgot all of it already. Can we go back to learning food?"

"Yes," said Glorfindel. He stood up on his knees, but before turning from the West he muttered to himself, under his breath, "Lord Manwë, I beg You forgive him his ignorance; he is simple and knows not the wonder of Your reign."

As the sun dipped lower and shadows grew longer, they walked along the terrace wall. They went as far as the guarded barrier where the wall met the mountain, then turned and continued back to the tower. While they walked, Oropher recited the words Glorfindel set him. "Alda. Taurë. Lassë. Indhil. Chellë. Ondo. Fandya. Anar. Ithil. Oronti." Glorfindel only half listened, not caring enough to correct Oropher's pronunciation. He ran his hand lazily along the roughness of the stones and kicked at pebbles. For the first time in his life, he realised, he had nothing to do: no work, no chores, and no duties. The few things he did for Fingon were ceremonial at best, and teaching Oropher was a choice, not a requirement. He absently wondered if all of life in Eithel Sirion would be so eventless. If so, he would be dead of boredom before the year's end.

"Apsa. Sáva. Pidhya. Tyur. Thornë. Celva. Thambë. Mindon. Minassë." Oropher's voice continued to chant at his side.

"What may people do here?" he asked.

"What?"

"What may people do? Look, see us, we only walk on this wall. What may people do when they have no work? Walk, only?"

Oropher paused to consider. "Well, the people who work, they're always working. The ones who have farms or work in the castle. But the lords and people like you and me, and the King... I know the King has his garden and some plants. I help him take care of those sometimes. Or I sit in the stairs and think about things like I was doing when you found me today. Or sometimes I practice with weapons. Swords and spears and bows. You ever do that?"

"No," said Glorfindel. He had a small copper knife, hardly as long as his hand, and in Valmar had once used a long blade to kill a goat. But it was hardly the same. He had never touched a real weapon, like the heavy swords the Noldor carried. Nothing that was meant to be used on anything other than animal throats or vegetable stalks.

"Then I can show you," Oropher said, grinning. "You teach me Quenya, I teach you sword fighting. Just follow me."

Again Oropher led the way, this time following a winding path of stone steps down from the terraces and through the garden. The road twisted alongside falling streams that fed into pools, and turned past trees whose drooping leaves veiled the way. Always ahead, the faint sound of clanging metal on metal drew nearer.

"Someone's here already," said Oropher. "We'll have to wait. They don't like me interrupting. But we can watch."

They stepped out of the trees and onto the edge of a practice lawn just in time to see Fingon and Finrod, facing each other several paces apart, raise their swords in preparation to duel.

"Wonder how good he is," Oropher muttered.

"Who?" asked Glorfindel, but his voice was lost under the loud ringing blow as Fingon struck, fast and merciless as a snake. Finrod had barely time enough to lift his sword in defence when Fingon struck again, and again, forcing Finrod to stumble back under the force. He lost his footing and fell to one knee.

"Not very," Oropher said in answer to his own musing.

"Maybe he was not ready," said Glorfindel.

In the middle of the lawn, Fingon walked a wide arc back to his starting position, swinging his sword lazily at the air. Finrod stood and braced himself again, but Fingon's arm whipped unexpectedly around, easily knocking the blade from his hands with another resounding clang. He leapt back in surprise, and Fingon laughed loudly. Glorfindel cringed to feel the embarrassment on Finrod's behalf.

"Really not very good," said Oropher.

"Better than you and I, I guess," said Glorfindel. Oropher's statement may have been true, but it annoyed him nonetheless to hear Finrod being dismissed so casually.

Oropher shook his head. "Not me." He paused to watch a spectacular onslaught by Fingon, and a spectacularly bad tumble by Finrod that ended with him flat on his back while his sword stood wobbling in a clump of grass several feet away. "Me, I practice whenever I can. So's I'm ready when I turn fifty."

"Oh," said Glorfindel. He did not ask why Oropher wanted to be ready, nor for what.

The conversation lapsed into silence again, and Finrod continued to fail. He fell, was disarmed, suffered injury, was beaten back, and fully allowed himself to be shamed by the superior skill of his cousin. With one lunging strike he managed to land a solid blow to Fingon's back with the flat side of his blade, but even hopeful Glorfindel had to admit this seemed to be more out of luck than anything else. Fingon retaliated swiftly by knocking Finrod's feet from under him and sending his sword flying once more.

"We should go back inside," said Glorfindel, but Oropher shook his head.

"No, let's watch this."

"But if they see-"

Glorfindel's concern was voiced a second too late. Fingon's eyes, sweeping the lawn as he walked another arc of victory, came to rest on the mouth of the pathway where they stood. With a smile, he beckoned Glorfindel closer. Glorfindel reluctantly came.

"How long have you been watching?" Fingon asked.

Glorfindel shook his head. "Hardy any time at all. We just arrived."

"I suppose your little friend brought you here."

Blushing, Glorfindel looked back to Oropher, who had discovered a mat on the grass. On the mat was a selection of practice blades, and Oropher appeared to be studying them with interest.

Fingon turned up his nose, as if Oropher's mere presence could fill the lawn with a bad odour. "I would have hoped you'd choose your company more carefully," he said. Glorfindel said nothing.

Beside them, Finrod had managed to pull himself to his feet with a groan and was now standing slumped over with his hands braced on his knees. "I am beat, cousin!" he panted. "I have no strength to continue. So if it's fine by you, I'll return to my room and wash up before supper. I'm afraid I'm filthy as well as exhausted, from falling over so often."

"Aye, go," said Fingon. He crossed to shake Finrod's hand and pat his shoulder heartily, though Finrod winced in pain at the contact. "I will see you later."

As Finrod nodded gratefully and limped off toward the tower, Fingon scowled and swung his sword viciously at the air. "Now see," he said to Glorfindel, "the Sinda's interruption has cost me my sparring partner!"

"I'm sorry; we didn't mean-"

"It's not your fault, don't worry," said Fingon. "I blame him. He knows he's not allowed here, yet he comes anyhow. I ought to teach him to respect the rules. Tell him to pick a sword and come over here."

Glorfindel stared uncertainly. "You want him to... fight you?"

"That's exactly what I want," Fingon said. "Now tell him to pick his sword."

Biting his lip, Glorfindel slowly walked to where Oropher was crouched. "Oropher... now that Findaráto is gone back in the tower... he wants you to pick a sword and fight."

Oropher's reaction was far from the fear Glorfindel had expected. Instead, his eyes widened and shone brightly, a disbelieving grin breaking across his face. "Honest? That's what he said?"

"Oropher, this is not a good thing..."

His warning was lost. In a second, Oropher had selected a thin, curved blade, more of a long knife than a sword. He ran to stand opposite Fingon, steady and alert, knife at his side. As was expected, he bowed his head in respect to his opponent. Fingon gave him a scant nod in return. Then they paused, but only for a moment.

Fingon, always the aggressor, struck first. He swung his blade with such speed that Glorfindel's eyes could hardly follow the movement. But where Finrod had tried to block, Oropher dodged with the agility of wind to slip under Fingon's arm and whirl around his back. Caught off guard, Fingon was slow to recover and repair the distance between them. Oropher's knife slashed through the fabric of his shirt and grazed the skin.

He attacked again immediately, but again Oropher spryly dodged. His knife whistled within a hair of Fingon's shoulder. Fingon spun and charged, again and again, but could not land a blow. He was larger and stronger, but that size and strength cost him agility. For all his skill, Oropher was too quick. The thin knife struck cloth and skin, never too deep, but making enough of a scratch to sting and draw a razor line of blood. At each cut, Oropher laughed gleefully, and Fingon shouted with rage. He began to swing carelessly. Oropher continued to duck, leap, and twist his way out of the path of Fingon's blade.

Fingon was breathing loudly, and both hands clutched the hilt of his sword. His shoulders had drooped with exhaustion. He lunged at Oropher, and missed, and lunged again, and missed again. On the third lunge he swung too heavily and fell on his hands and knees, where he stayed, panting, while Oropher let out a triumphant shout. Before he could stand again, Oropher was at his side holding his knife up proudly in the air.

"I win!" Oropher cried.

But as soon as the words were spoken, Fingon's hand shot up like an arrow and grabbed Oropher about the collar, flinging him down to the ground. The point of Fingon's sword was at his throat before Oropher had time even to blink in shock. Fingon stood, slowly and carefully, as a wry smile formed on his lips.

"One must never assume that an enemy who has fallen has been beaten," he said. All hint of exhaustion was gone from his voice and body.

It had been a ruse, Glorfindel saw. There was no way Fingon could have beaten Oropher had the fight continued in the way it started. He must have known this early on. Instead, he feigned tiredness to play up to Oropher's cocky inexperience, and he won. Something told Glorfindel he always won.

"Get up," Fingon said, in Sindarin. He relaxed his stance to let his sword hang at his side. "Go now. Back in the tower."

Oropher scrambled to his feet, face no longer cocky nor triumphant, and bowed hastily to Fingon before leaving the practice lawn as quickly as he could manage. He coughed and clutched at his chest as he ran. He must have had the wind knocked out of him when Fingon slammed him down, Glorfindel thought.

"You are dismissed as well," Fingon said, turning back to Glorfindel. "For the time being. But I think I'll have you come to my room tonight, later. You may do as you wish until then. Only avoid that Sindarin boy."

"I will," said Glorfindel. The way Fingon spoke gave a clear indication that he was to leave immediately and not ask any questions. He was more than happy to oblige. He followed Oropher's path back to the tower, though at a far slower pace, while behind him Fingon gathered the practice swords and wrapped them back in their mat. On the way he did not see Oropher, and did not look for him, and so kept his word.

~

Fingon liked to be clean. Water was, he thought, his favourite thing in the world. In his opinion, there was nothing better than a long soak in a steaming bath after a day of sweat and swordplay. He would sit until the water cooled, then sometimes, if he had nowhere to be, reheat the tub from the kettle that sat boiling over the fire and sit again until that water cooled. He could easily spend an entire evening in the bath.

He liked to swim, and feel his body encased in water. His uncle Finarfin had owned a little house in Alqualondë, a beachside retreat, and when he was young he had pleaded with his mother until she agreed to let him go visit his uncle there. That ocean felt more like home than anywhere else he had ever been. Finarfin teased him for it and often wondered that he wasn't in fact a little Telerin foundling his mother accidentally picked up in place of her own baby. He stayed there every year, up to the time when a cruel turn of fate led him to foul the pure water he loved with blood drawn by his own sword. With chaos in the air, it was hard to tell which he loved better, water or war. When it was over, he began to think he had made the wrong choice.

He could never survive in a dry place. He had not minded the Helcaraxë as much as some, and would cross it again if need be. Water was abundant there, however cold. But he knew he would have died crossing a desert. Crossing the mountains was trial enough, until they came to Lake Mithrim. Leaving the shores of the lake for Eithel Sirion was nearly as difficult as leaving Finarfin's beach home when he was a child. But there was the spring here at least, and the river. It was a necessity to have water and be clean, no matter when or where.

The water in the tub was starting to cool again, and the kettle was empty. For the last time, Fingon slowly slid down until his head was beneath the surface and his hair floated about lazily around his face and neck. He lay still until his breath ran out, then slowly slid back up, water running in little rivulets and dripping from his skin. It was time to dry off and, he supposed, find Finrod and keep him distracted for the evening. As he stepped from the tub and went to grab his bath sheet from where it lay draped across his desk, he made a note to have Glorfindel present at all bathing times in the future, so as to avoid the discomfort of having to walk across a cold stone floor while naked and dripping wet.

A small wooden box sat on the desk beside the towel, exactly where Fingon had left it. Inside that box was the gold ring Fëanor had given him. Once he had dried himself and pulled on his house robe, he opened the box and dropped the ring into the palm of his hand. Holding it close to his face, he still wondered at its detail, even after all the years. It was a shame to have to lose such a piece.

He had made up his mind already that he would send the ring elsewhere for safekeeping. He could not risk keeping it anywhere in his bedroom, no matter how well-hidden, if Glorfindel was to be constantly underfoot, tidying and straightening. If Glorfindel ever saw that ring, there would be no way to prevent his uncovering of the truth. It had to go. He would send it away, to the one person in the entire city he trusted to keep a secret. He would send it to Lailaniel.

Lailaniel's father was Anairë's cousin, making Lailaniel and her brother second-cousins to Fingon, though they always seemed closer. Lailaniel had been topped only by Maedhros in Fingon's hierarchy of confidantes and true friends back in Tirion. But now that Maedhros was no longer an option, she filled the prime position. She would guard that ring and keep it as secret as the depths of the sea.

Though still, Fingon told himself, there was no reason to tell her more than she needed to know. He took up a pen, mixed a puddle of ink, and wrote a short note in small, perfect script.

_My Lulu-_

_The contents of this box are for you and you alone. Tell no-one and show no-one; your father especially must not know, nor mine. Keep it safely hidden until I send word to do otherwise. It is a great secret that I would keep only for us._

_-Your Findekáno_  
  
When the ink had dried he folded the paper carefully and sealed it. Then he took up the box, replaced the ring, and tied it shut with ribbon. The box went into a small cloth bag, and the letter was tied to that. Satisfied, Fingon pulled on the first clothes he grabbed out of the wardrobe and set off to find a messenger.


	9. Kindred

When the sun had set completely and the sky was dark, Glorfindel found himself back exactly where he had been at that time two days earlier. He had taken a seat against the wall opposite Fingon's bedroom door and was once again waiting for it to open. He knew Fingon was inside. Earlier he had heard the sounds of Fingon pacing about, the rustle of fabrics, and the scraping of heavy furniture being moved over the stone floor. But it had turned suddenly quiet. He guessed Fingon must be in the bath. That being the case, there was nothing to do but wait.

Few things happened on the fifth floor to take his mind off the boredom of waiting or distract him from the discomfort of sitting for so long on a hard stone floor. Some time ago a Sindarin girl had passed on her way to deliver a tray of fruit, and passed again as she returned to the stair, but neither she nor Glorfindel had acknowledged or spoken to each other. Not long afterward he'd heard a clatter from down the stairs, and angry shouts. But that was all. So it was only natural that he quickly turned his head to look when he heard a door open down the corridor. It was around the curve of the tower, so he could not see, but he heard a door opening and soft voices.

"No, you keep that. I'm sure he has something." That voice belonged to Finrod. Glorfindel was certain of it.

"So for tomorrow?" This second voice was deep and smooth, though undeniably feminine. It was Finrod's sister.

"After breakfast, Taror said. Don't worry. He'll send someone to find you if you're not there."

"I still don't think you should go. You're still holding your shoulder like... Here, let me..."

"I'm fine, I'll be fine," said Finrod's voice. "Looks worse than it is."

The lady laughed. "You men, trying to be so tough."

"Only to impress fine ladies such as you."

He must have kissed her hand then, and she laughed again, muttering, "Scoundrel!" Then with the swish of her skirt, the door tapped shut.

Finrod was grinning to himself as he came round the curve and into Glorfindel's line of sight. If he was surprised to find anyone else in the corridor, he did not show it. "Waiting for my cousin?" he asked.

"I am," said Glorfindel. Just as he thought to stand, Finrod came to the wall and sat down next to him.

"Do you want to be waiting for my cousin?"

"Of course I do," Glorfindel lied.

Finrod only had to look at him square in the eye, honest and unchallenging, to dissolve any pretence of loyalty to Fingon.

"No," he said, far more quietly.

"What do you want?" Finrod asked.

He wanted to be back in Valmar with Amma. He had wanted that ever since rough waves had jerked his ship away from the shores of Aman, when he realised what an irreparable mistake he was making. But that wish was impossible, so he thought of the next best thing he wanted, and that was just for Finrod to stay and talk to him. "I don't know," he answered, and hoped that was the right thing to say to keep Finrod nearby a little longer.

It seemed to work. Finrod relaxed further and leaned against the wall, as if he anticipated the coming of a long conversation. "You may tell me," he said with a faint, sad smile. "I'll not judge you too harshly by it."

Glorfindel shook his head. "It's childish."

"How is that?" Finrod asked. "Do you wish to be back with your parents?"

"Mm," said Glorfindel in half an answer. He felt suddenly very small again, lost and alone, and before he could help himself he had leaned over to rest his head against Finrod's shoulder. Finrod accepted the gesture so easily, wrapping both arms around Glorfindel in quiet comfort, that neither immediately realised what they had done.

"I don't find it childish," Finrod said softly. "You've been here such a short time. Of course you miss your parents. I daresay they miss you too. Age does not calm the pain of loss. I have been away from home for many years, yet I still miss my mother and father."

"How old are you?" asked Glorfindel.

Unexpectedly, Finrod laughed so that his whole body shook. "Now that is hardly a thing to ask in polite conversation!"

Glorfindel felt his face and ears burn. "I'm sorry..." he muttered, and wished he could kick himself soundly. There was something about Finrod, something far too comfortable and close, that caused him to act stupidly and impulsively and do things without thinking. They had known each other, and not even well, for only a day. One day, and already they spoke like close friends. Glorfindel could neither explain nor understand it.

"I am two-hundred-thirty-nine," said Finrod.

All those numbers together sounded so old to Glorfindel. Finrod was close in age to his grandparents, and over twice as old as Amma. It made him curious. "Is Findekáno older or younger?" he asked.

"Older," said Finrod, "by twenty-nine years."

Fingon was two-hundred-sixty-eight, Glorfindel figured in his head: six years older than his grandfather. The two looked hardly alike. While grandfather's skin was roughened and finely lined by years of hard work, Fingon's softer life had scarcely aged him. And despite his age, Fingon was neither as wise nor as trustworthy, neither compassionate nor kind. He was no grandfather.

Glorfindel did not realise how hard he had been pressing his face against Finrod's shoulder until Finrod spoke again. "Go back to your own room," he said gently. "You needn't worry over my cousin. I can make your excuses. I shall say I dismissed you."

Quickly, Glorfindel weighed the options in his mind. Stay with Finrod, or return to his bleak bedroom. Staying with Finrod meant staying near the one person in Eithel Sirion he found he could admire, though it also meant staying with Fingon. By returning to his bedroom he could avoid Fingon, though somehow being alone there in the dark made him think too strongly on how far he was from Amma. At least with Fingon, he was kept too distracted to remember the sharp bite of loneliness and the insatiable longing for home.

"I'd rather stay," he said. He kept his eyes on the floor as he added, silently to himself, _With you._

Finrod smiled at him, a hint of sad sympathy in his eyes, but he did not press the matter further. "Very well," he said. Then he took a short breath, as if to speak again. He was interrupted by padding footsteps. A muted shuffling of leather shoes on stone floor, the creak of a heavy door, and Fingon stood before them.

Fingon had come from the bath; Glorfindel had guessed correctly. His hair was wet and pulled back into a rough pigtail, and he had dressed in old, faded clothes, making him look even less princely than usual. In his hand, he held a small package. It seemed to take him a moment, as he stepped from the room, to register that Glorfindel and Finrod were in the corridor. When he did, he gave the slightest startled twitch, as if pulled abruptly from deep thought.

"I hope you enjoyed your bath, cousin," Finrod said chidingly. "You have kept us waiting."

"I did," said Fingon. He glanced quickly at Finrod, then at the stairway, then at the package in his hand.

"And I hope you have some supper waiting for us," Finrod continued. "My sister is trying to be fashionable and requested only a fruit tray. Hardly adequate after a day of swords practice. Being thoroughly beaten by you is hungry work."

Fingon nodded. "I'll order something be sent up." He looked impatiently again toward the stairway, frowning as he ran his tongue over his teeth.

"Good to hear," said Finrod. "Something hot, I think, maybe soup with-"

"I'll order someone bring a full hot meal," Fingon interrupted. "But if you will excuse me for now?" He gestured with his head toward the stairs while his fingers tightened around the package. "I have a small task I must first do. Wait for me; I shall be back shortly."

He was down five stairs before he turned to step back up and call to Finrod, "Wait in my bedroom, I meant. The fire is lit." Then he disappeared down the spiral.

Finrod stood still a few seconds before shrugging in confusion and motioning for Glorfindel to follow him into Fingon's room. "Let's wait here then," he said. "I can guarantee the rugs in here are more suited to sitting on than the floor out there."

Fingon's bedroom had changed yet again, Glorfindel saw. The chests were gone, leaving their contents in great piles on the floor. Two cushioned chairs and a bookcase had appeared. An enormous bear skin lay on the floor between the bed and the fireplace, no doubt a tribute to Fingon's power and wealth. Finrod took a cushion from one of the chairs and sprawled down on his side near the bear's tail. Glorfindel sat carefully next to him.

Neither said anything further. Glorfindel could think of nothing to say, though he had no desire to say anything anyhow. The silence that filled the room was different from the dreadful quiet that hung about when Fingon was near. This silence was warm and reassuring. There was no need to speak. He could hear Finrod's low breathing, and the cracking of the fire, and that was enough. Slowly, it urged him to relax. He lay down on his stomach with his hands folded under his chin. He could see Finrod beside him from the corner of his eye, face and hair flickering golden-orange in the firelight. For the first time since leaving Valmar, he began to feel safe and at home.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Glorfindel was beginning to grow accustomed to waking up in confusion, unsure of where he was and why he was there. But this time, he was also in terrible pain. His entire body ached from shivering in air so cold he could see his breath. His back ached from sleeping on the stone floor, and his stomach was knotted with hunger. He had eaten nothing since going to the dining hall with Oropher.

His last memory was of lying on the bearskin rug with Finrod in front of Fingon's fireplace, and that was where he still was. Only Finrod was gone, and the fire was out. The bear's fur felt damp. Glorfindel's clothes felt damp, and even the air in the room was damp and cold. Only a little grey light came from the shuttered window. Everything smelled of rain.

Shivering, Glorfindel forced his stiff body to stand up. The curtains around Fingon's bed were closed. On the table beside the bed sat a tray of the uneaten ends of supper. Glorfindel hungrily ate half a damp roll, and swallowed the remaining mouthfuls of a cold bowl of broth. It was dirty to eat someone else's leftover food, but he hardly cared. He could fast and pray to Manwë later. The food made him feel better.

As he set the soup bowl down, Fingon's blankets rustled. "Are you awake?" Fingon asked.

"Yes." Glorfindel pulled back the curtain enough to peer inside. In the darkness, he could just make out a scowl on Fingon's face.

"You look half frozen."

"Yes," said Glorfindel. He shivered as he said it.

Groaning, Fingon threw back the blankets. "Get in."

Glorfindel, too chilled to hesitate, stepped out of his shoes and slipped under covers warmed by Fingon's body heat. The air within the curtains was warmer too, and not so damp. He pulled the blankets up to his chin and waited nervously for Fingon to do something, or speak. But Fingon only turned over with an inelegant grunt and went back to sleep.

The day's early morning passed in the same routine as before. Glorfindel lay awake as the Sindarin boys came to make the fire. Fingon slept until his breakfast arrived. When they had eaten, Fingon had Glorfindel find his riding clothes and heavy cape, which were somewhere amid the piles of objects. He gave Glorfindel a list of tasks for the day as he dressed.

"I am going riding for the day," he said, "with my cousins and my father. Ta's favourite activity, which he calls a 'rade', is for us to all ride very slowly in single file across the countryside, carrying banners and flags and other useless heraldry. It's dreadfully boring. I expect Findaráto will try to sing. While I am gone, I would have you tidy in here. I want all my clothes off the floor and into the wardrobe. The rest of the items and furniture you can arrange as you wish. There are a few rugs; place those where you think they're needed. Books go on the shelves, of course. Though if you find any hour-books of my writing, put those on my desk."

Glorfindel nodded as he surveyed the bedroom. Everything was in disarray, and he knew there would be more of the same in the bathing room. It would take him well into the afternoon, if not the evening, to finish it all.

"And I would like you here when I return," said Fingon. He fastened the clasp of his cape at his throat, and settled the heavy wool over his shoulders. "That will be after supper-time."

"Alright," said Glorfindel, though a sickly twinge began to flicker in his stomach again.

Fingon smiled thinly. He placed one hand on Glorfindel's shoulder, and the other on Glorfindel's cheek, before leaning in for a sudden, hard kiss. He pulled back again before Glorfindel had time even to register the shock. "Good-bye," he said.

The moment Fingon was out the door, Glorfindel wiped his mouth in disgust. "I hate him," he muttered, though he knew it was not wholly true. He could feel anger or fear, but not total hatred toward Fingon. If it were hatred, he would be able to stand up to him. Now though he had courage only to feel anger in Fingon's absence, thoughts racing with should-have-dones and defences come a minute too late. Frustrated, he turned to the disorganised piles on the floor. Work, at least, would occupy the time and distract his mind. He knelt on the floor and began viciously sorting, shirts from breeches and cloaks from robes.

It took only minutes for a knock to sound at the door, and only a second for Oropher to peek inside. "Oh you are in here," he said. "Thought so."

"I'm busy," snapped Glorfindel.

"Mm," said Oropher. He casually strolled around the room, looking at everything as he went. "Not much room in here is there? I mean not for all that stuff on the floor. Looks like lots of work to do. Need help?"

"No."

"You sure? There's a lot of things to put away." He picked up a shirt from the floor and folded it over his arm. "What if you sort it and I put it away?"

"No," said Glorfindel. "You'll do it wrong."

Oropher shrugged. "Then I'll sort it and you put it away."

"You'll sort it wrong."

"I guess I know how to sort clothes," Oropher said irritably. "I guess I know the difference between vests and tunics and what's good clothes and what's old clothes! I've only been doing just this for the King for more than a year now. Why're you so grumpy anyhow?"

Glorfindel threw down the armful of stockings he held, and picked up a pair of breeches just to throw them down again. "Nothing!" he said. "No reason! I think you are angry too, if you must always spend time with the King and he tries to..." He growled, swatting and punching at the pile of clothes before him.

Oropher sighed. "I don't get angry," he quietly answered. "Nana always said there's no sense getting angry or worrying about something you can't change. You just got to live through it."

The words stilled Glorfindel's hands. Of all the people in the castle, Oropher was the one who would understand how he felt. Oropher was bound to the same hidden life of fear and shame. Glorfindel had known it from their first meeting, on some level, but had not yet stopped to consider exactly what that meant, or how brave Oropher must be. Oropher did not sulk, whine or weep. He did not hide away, or shout in needless, solitary anger. Yet he was younger, and had been over a year in his wretched position.

"I'm sorry," Glorfindel murmured. He folded his hands into his lap and stared down at them in shame. "For... Sorry."

Oropher sat down next to him, close enough so that their shoulders touched. "It's alright," he said. Then, clearing his throat, added, "I'll fold. You can sort as you put everything away."

With Oropher's help, the task went quickly. And the more they accomplished, the more they agreed they could afford a few minutes of idle play. Oropher took to trying on each of Fingon's garments before folding it. He posed haughtily for Glorfindel, though everything was too long and too wide. In a pile in the bathing room they found Fingon's finest clothes, which they both tried. Oropher thought black suited Glorfindel's golden features. Glorfindel thought it made Oropher look too ghostly pale. When there were no more clothes to try, they adorned themselves with jewels and rings. Then came the books.

"Can you read?" asked Oropher. He was still wearing a pair of Fingon's boots, so large they clumped noisily when he walked, and Fingon's silver prince's band rested unevenly on his head.

"No," said Glorfindel. "Can you?"

Oropher shook his head, causing the circlet to tilt further to one side. "No. So I'm sorting by colour."

To Glorfindel, that seemed to be as reasonable a method as any. He had been sorting by size, putting fat books on one end of the shelf and working down toward thin books. He checked each book to see if he could discern which contained Fingon's writing. All of them, though, appeared to be filled with the same delicate rows of slanting crescents, strokes and dots. It was impossible to judge one from the next. In the end it was Oropher who decided that seven thin volumes with unmarked black covers must be the books of Fingon's writing.

"He'd have black books, wouldn't he?" Oropher reasoned. "And they got no words on the cover like the others. I reckon they're the ones the Prince writes in. Though what he's got to write about, I don't know."

Flipping through the pages, Glorfindel agreed. The writing was uneven in places, slanted upward or hastily scrawled in blockish tables. Some words and entire lines were crossed out. He put the plain black books on Fingon's desk, with a collection of pens and a case of ink sticks.

The room was finished then. All of Fingon's things were placed and ordered. "It looks better," said Oropher. "More tidy and like someone lives here. It's nice." He gave approving nods to the carefully arranged tables and rugs. "I never been in here before. You ever been in the King's room?"

"No."

"Want to? He's not here to stop us."

Glorfindel opened his mouth to say they ought not do such a thing, but his words were stopped by Oropher's scheming grin. He could hardly help but smile in return. And, several minutes later, he had to admit that there was a certain wicked satisfaction to be found in trying on Fingolfin's jewellery collection. He could now legitimately say that he had seen the inside of a king's bedroom, though he was not entirely sure to whom he would ever want to say such a thing. He only had Oropher, and occasionally Fingon and Finrod, to talk to, and all of them could claim the same honour.

It took a long time for them to grow bored with looking through everything the King owned. They paid particular attention to a leather folder that Oropher found under the false bottom of a desk drawer: a folder containing many drawings and paintings of naked ladies.

"You ever seen a real girl naked?" Oropher asked.

Glorfindel shook his head.

"Me neither," said Oropher. "Once I told Ninnan- she works in the kitchens- I'd give her a whole bag of loucoums if she took her dress off for me. She hit me in the head with a bread basket and told me never to talk to her again. But I brought her the loucoums anyway, and some apple candy, and she said she'd think about it. I keep bringing her things in case she changes her mind. She's older, maybe older even than you, and she's a bit fat with great tits and a big bum. She's the best-looking girl in the castle. I'm going to marry her."

Glorfindel tried to imagine the voluptuous Sindarin girl from the kitchens who was brash enough to hit someone in the head with a basket and consider taking her clothes off for candy. The mental image was unappealing. He preferred the demure ladies in Fingolfin's drawings, with their coyly-placed hands and downcast eyes. They were beautiful, perfect fantasies worthy of worship. Not one looked like she would ever be caught in the kitchens with Oropher. Not one would ever be caught doing anything crude at all. They were like Maiar.

Glorfindel finally agreed to put away the pictures long after Oropher, who clearly preferred curvy, loud and violent girls, grew bored. Though he only did so because the day was waning and Fingolfin would soon return home. Given the choice, he could have looked at those pictures for hours.

"I'm hungry," said Oropher. "Let's go get some supper."

Glorfindel nodded in agreement. He felt hungry, though he was not certain if the hunger was for food.

"Then we can do more Quenya lessons."

"Alright."

They left Fingolfin's room carefully, leaving nothing out of place.

~ ~ ~ ~

Lailaniel awoke late. She saw little point in getting out of bed when there was nothing to do, and no point at all in getting up on a day so grey and miserable, so she stayed tucked safely within warm quilts and curtains. The maid brought her dinner tray to her bedside, and she picked at it as she read a book of romance stories. The stories were all about beautiful and clever maidens swarmed by suitors. The maiden always chose the poor but kind and brilliant man, which naturally meant the stories had been written by someone with no money. No real person of status would ever settle like that. They were stupid stories, Lailaniel knew, but she read them anyhow. They passed the time.

She shifted in bed, ignoring the stiff pain in her leg, and set the book down on her lap. "I could write better stories," she muttered aloud. Stories, she thought, about an intelligent and well-born noblewoman, who, alas, had no suitors, as she was rather plain (apart from her admirably long hair) and had been partially crippled. She was good friends with a handsome prince, her second-cousin, who was also unmarried (as most ladies found his dark humour and temperament most off-putting, though the noblewoman did not mind in the least, being rather cynical herself). She loved him dearly, and had since she was a small girl, but he was blind to her affections and she was too proud to tell him outright. So they lived in a stasis of friendship. But one day, after many years, the handsome but unhappy prince realised that the source of his unhappiness was his lack of a wife, and only his plain-but-adoring second-cousin could ever fill that role properly. Thus they married immediately and lived happily ever after in a castle by a lake, with two children and many dogs and horses.

It was a fantasy, but one that at times seemed so attainable. When Fingon smiled at her- a genuine smile, not the amused smile he so often handed out to others- or held her arm to help her up the steps from the garden, or if he carried her when she grew tired from the labour of walking, the spark of their future was so close she could almost see it. Sometimes she did see it. Fingon had been her husband in dreams more than a few times. She never foresaw anything else, apart from one vision of a new bedroom reading chair some days before her father gave it to her, but she still held out hope that the dream of marriage would eventually come to be.

With that in mind, she picked up the book of romance stories and started again from the beginning. She read until supper time, when her brother knocked at the door.

"May I come in?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and set the book down again on her lap.

Galadrin stepped through the door and closed it behind him. "Are you well?" Both his face and voice were concerned. "You've been in bed all day. Shall I have father call for the surgeon?"

"No, I'm fine," said Lailaniel. "I was only reading."

"You read the same books again and again. You should go outside more. It would be good for you." He looked down at her legs, covered by layers of quilts, and patted the light contour of her knee. "You stayed in bed all day yesterday, too," he added.

"I was reading yesterday, too."

"And the day before?" Galadrin asked. "Father and I worry about you. You've hardly been out of your room since Findekáno left."

"I find it difficult to go for walks now without him to help me," said Lailaniel.

Galadrin took her hand. "I could help you; I'd be more than happy."

"Perhaps tomorrow," Lailaniel said, shaking her head, "or when the skies clear. Not today. The weather is frightful."

"Are you unhappy? Over Findekáno leaving?"

Lailaniel forced a short, light-hearted laugh. "Now that's silly. Why should I be upset? He's only gone across the city."

"Well if you are upset..." Galadrin began as he reached into his pocket. He handed his sister a small black cloth bag, to which was tied a letter. "Here. It arrived late last night, when you were already asleep. It's from Findekáno. It might cheer you."

As quickly as was dignified, Lailaniel grabbed the little bag and pulled open the letter. 'My Lulu,' it began. A rich smile spread across her face.

"What is it?" asked Galadrin. "Open it."

"I can't," she said coyly. "Not with you watching. It's a secret."

Galadrin's eyebrows raised. "Oh?"

"Yes," she said. "Now please leave. I want to open it and see my surprise."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

Lailaniel flicked her hand to dismiss him, keeping here eyes firmly on the cloth bag. "Yes. Go. Tell father I'll have my supper in bed again."

Slowly, Galadrin stood and made his way to the door. "If the weather improves tomorrow... I'll take you walking."

"Mmm," said Lailaniel, nodding impatiently at him. "That would be nice. Good night."

"Good night."

The moment Galadrin shut the door behind him, Lailaniel reached into the little bag and pulled out a small wooden box. She opened the lid, and gasped at the contents. A golden ring, perfect and beautiful as any she had ever seen, sat on a patch of velvet. Her fingers trembled as she picked it up and held it close to her face. Four tiny scenes of Valinor, so wonderfully detailed that they might have been crafted by Aulë himself, sat before her eyes. She slipped it on. Of course it had been Fingon's ring, and was far too loose on her slender finger, but as she examined it she marked a narrow divider of plain gold between each miniature scene. With that filler removed, the ring could easily be resized for a lady. Provided she would one day be free to wear it openly as a symbol of her love.

Stiffly, she slid out of bed and crossed the room to her dressing mirror. She held up her hand to the level of her breast, waving it back and forth so the ring caught the dim afternoon light, admiring how well the gold suited her. She was over two hundred years old already. It was high time she had a gold ring for her finger.

She twirled and danced back to her bed, as best she could, and fell backward onto the mattress with a breathless giggle. Fingon loved her. One day they would be married. It was a secret for now, for reasons she did not quite understand, but secrets cannot be kept forever. She could wait as long as he needed: six years, sixty years, six hundred years. She would always wait for him.


	10. Lesson

Northwest of Barad Eithel, near the source of the River Sirion in the mountains, was a large hot spring and open-air bath house. The complex was divided into three parts: one for the men, one for the ladies, and one for the Sindar. Unsurprisingly, the Sindarin section was smallest and least accommodating, and scarcely developed at all except for the fence and gate surrounding it and a few rough benches within. In contrast, the Noldorin sections were architectural artwork. At least by frontier standards.  
  
Each section was surrounded by a high stone wall, to ensure that no bather from one side of the partition would accidentally see anyone from the other. The walls were plain but beautifully smooth and pale yellow. Flowering vines grew in places. Every few feet there was an alcove large enough for two or three adults to stand and undress, with pegs to hang their clothes. In the centre of each walled area was a large, perfect oval of a pool, shallow at the edges and deep toward the middle, as well as a number of smaller, private pools off to the sides. There was no roof overhead, so bathers were free to lie back in the water and stare up at the sun, moon or stars. Or clouds.  
  
Fingon floated on his back in the middle of the oval, staring up at the blackening clouds. The entire day had threatened rain, though apart from a few spits nothing had come. He would welcome it now. There was always something wonderful about being outside in a rainstorm and getting soaked through, especially if one was already comfortably wet from floating in a pool of hot water. He rolled over onto his front and began a lazy stroke toward the farthest edge. Finrod bobbed along beside him.  
  
"Six hundred."  
  
"No."  
  
"Eight hundred, then."  
  
"No."  
  
"Twelve hundred?"  
  
"No!"  
  
"And a horse."  
  
"Findaráto..."  
  
"Two horses. Pure black."  
  
"I said no!"  
  
"Twelve hundred culustar, two black horses, and as many gemstones as you can fit in your hand. AND," he added before Fingon could refuse again, "your weight in silk."  
  
Fingon scowled. "Now you're being ridiculous."  
  
"I am," said Finrod. "It is ridiculous to pay that sum for anything, but I have my reasons and I'm deadly serious. This is a very generous offer; at least four times what you're likely to get from anyone else."  
  
"Pity I'm not interested. And don't care a jot for what anyone else would offer either." Fingon stretched to reach the edge, then turned back over and rested his head against the warm stone. He closed his eyes and breathed in soothing steam.  
  
"You should be interested," said Finrod. "That's a fair-size fortune."  
  
"And you're a fair-size idiot to keep hounding me about it. I gave you my answer. I don't want your money. Don't let's be the sort of cousins who begin to hate each other over trivial nonsense. I'm full up on those already."  
  
"This is not trivial nonsense," Finrod said with a frown. "It's a legitimate offer."  
  
"It was legitimate," said Fingon, "when you initially asked. But after I initially refused, it degraded into nonsense. Now you're honestly beginning to annoy me."  
  
Finrod twisted his hair in frustration. "How much will it take to make you see-"  
  
With a shout and a splash, Fingon stood suddenly and pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the pool. "Look, are you going to shut up and let me enjoy my swim or aren't you?!"  
  
Finrod looked back at him in silent irritation, water dripping down his face.  
  
"Thank you," said Fingon. He slipped back down into the water, closing his eyes again and leaning back against the edge.  
  
"Two thousand kulustar," said Finrod. "Six black horses, two handfuls of gemstones, your weight plus two stone in silk, and as many of my valuable possessions as you can stuff into a silver urn the size of your stupid, disagreeable head! Now that is an extortionate price. I cannot give you any more."  
  
Fingon sighed. "Good. Because my answer is still no. And now that we have agreed that I will not accept any price you name, perhaps we can return to swimming, or talk about something more interesting. Does it look like rain to you?"  
  
Finrod bit his lip in what looked to be a valiant effort at withholding foul language. "Now you are the one who is being ridiculous. Why? Why will you not just accept my offer? I think we both know I am being more than generous. Far more."  
  
"Because," said Fingon, "my servant is not for sale."  
  
"But why-"  
  
"You could offer me every last speck of gold you own and I would still refuse," he continued. "I have enough riches to my name, but I have only one Vanyarin boy. It would be foolish to trade something rare for something I already have. To my knowledge, he is the only Vanyarin boy in the entirety of Endor. Why should I give that away?"  
  
"If that is your only concern, then you are keeping him for the wrong reasons," said Finrod.  
  
Fingon snorted. "Ah, of course. I forgot. Your intentions are always so much nobler. Pray tell me, then, why do you wish to buy him like some sort of livestock?"  
  
"Well..." Finrod began. He leaned back against the ledge at Fingon's side, refusing eye contact. "I feel drawn to him, somehow. I know it sounds foolish, so spare me the jibes, but it's true. I think I was meant to find him. My decision to come here, for no reason other than a chance visit, and my arrival the day after his... surely that has to be more than coincidence? I think he was meant to find me as well."  
  
"But he came here," Fingon said. "Perhaps he was mean to find me. Otherwise he ought have gone to Tol Sirion."  
  
"In any case," said Finrod, "he reminds me of... better times and places. I spent so much time among the Vanyar, and he is a jewel of those beautiful and fair-minded people. I would like to take him back to Tol Sirion and have him properly educated, so to become a counsellor for me. I would just like to have him near."  
  
"I think your reasons are just as selfish as mine," said Fingon. "And I also think you'd be just as well off to get one of your brothers to remind you of better times and places. Artaher already lives by you and looks vaguely Vanyarin; why not pay him the two thousand to speak in a funny accent about obscure buildings in Valmar?"  
  
"You're mocking me," Finrod said darkly.  
  
Fingon nodded. "Yes, but you deserve it. Before you were only tiring. Now you're starting to give me a headache. Please let's go back to swimming."  
  
"I will not!" Finrod angrily stood to face Fingon straight on, his teeth clenched and his eyes gleaming. "I have tried being patient and reasonable with you, and I have been kind to you, and I have even tried bribing you, since that seems to be more your style! But no matter what I do, I am met with flippant remarks and taunts! I have had it! Now you are going to listen to me!"  
  
With a groan, Fingon pulled himself up out of the water and onto the warm stone deck. "I'll have to listen to you later," he said as he began to walk away. "Now is not convenient."  
  
"No, you will stop and listen now!" Finrod shouted, climbing out of the pool to follow his cousin. "I have offered you everything I could possibly give, and yet you still refuse! What do you want, Findekáno? What must I do to make you see how important this is to me? My proposition is more than reasonable, and I cannot understand why you continue to turn me down, apart from your own selfish stubbornness!"  
  
"Findaráto."  
  
"What?!"  
  
Fingon turned quickly around, leaning in close to speak quietly in Finrod's ear. "Cousin. We are standing naked in the middle of a public bath house, and you are shouting about me refusing your proposition. How do you think that looks? Need I remind you of my rather scandalous reputation? Particularly where cousins are involved?" He pulled back only enough to allow Finrod to see his smirk.  
  
"Oh," said Finrod. He stole a swift glance at the other bathers, all of whom were either staring at them or politely pretending not to have noticed anything. A man passed with a sneer, holding tightly to his young son's arm and keeping a wide berth. "Oh... oh Varda..."  
  
"Will it please you to keep your mouth shut now?" asked Fingon.  
  
"Yes I think so," Finrod said quietly.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Finrod nodded in meek agreement. "I'll... go sit with your father."  
  
He slipped away hastily, weaving through curious onlookers and potted plants in what was clearly a bid to put as much distance as he could between himself and Fingon. Fingon watched only until he was sure Finrod would not change his mind and return. Then he slid back into the water. It took only a few lengths of the pool for all annoyance at Finrod's meddling to wane. The steam calmed his temper as it clung to his skin. Briefly, he marvelled that the smell of foul eggs could be considered soothing under the right circumstances.  
  
Only when he was ready to leave did he search out his cousin again. Finrod was still in the small private spring with Fingolfin, who was wearing a tent-like canvas bathing costume. Both of them looked bored and uncomfortable. Finrod looked away as Fingon approached, and Fingolfin turned up his nose.  
  
"Stars, Findekáno," Fingolfin said, "you should put on some clothes. You look a perfect savage."  
  
Fingon glanced about the bath house with an exaggerated turn of the head. "Highly unlikely that anyone should think so, Ta. Everyone else is as naked as I, if not more so. I at least am wearing a hair tie."  
  
"You ought to set an example," said Fingolfin. He climbed out of the pool with a frown, canvas suit clinging and bunching awkwardly around his body and hindering his movement. At his signal, two bath attendants came bearing a large sheet, behind which he could dress, safely but with difficulty.  
  
Fingon watched the whole operation with amusement. "Ta considers it a terrible indignity for the King to be seen naked," he said loudly to Finrod. "He goes to great lengths to prevent even one hint of skin from showing. In fact, someone once told me he was born already wrapped tight in swaddling cloth."  
  
Finrod failed to smile. Instead he stood, carefully looking anywhere but at Fingon, and stepped out of the pool. He had put on his riding breeches. Water dripped and ran down his legs as he stalked off toward an alcove to dress.  
  
"Oh not you as well!" Fingon called after him. "How stupid was that? Now you'll be wet and cold all the way home."  
  
"I don't care!" Finrod shouted back. He roughly pulled on his stockings and shoes, treating them as if they were the sole cause of his foul mood, then his tunic, jerkin and cape. Water from the breeches soaked into each layer, and water from his hair dampened his back. "I am going to find my sister," he muttered once he was dressed. Fingon let him go.  
  
Fingon's own clothes hung in the alcove next to the one occupied by Fingolfin and the sheet. He prided himself on knowing how to properly dress after swimming. First, he wrung out his hair and fastened it in a knot on top of his head so it wouldn't drip down his back. Then he pulled on his breeches, and after that one stocking and boot, then the other stocking and boot, so that his stockings would not become wet from stepping bootless on the puddled floor. Then he could put on the rest of his clothes and finally his cape. This way, he would stay warm and dry even after he went to find Finrod and Artanis in the cold night air outside the bath house.  
  
They were already waiting by the horses when Fingon emerged, with Fingolfin not far behind. Finrod, despite his best efforts, was shivering in his wet clothes. He had given his cape to Artanis. Her own had fallen into the pool.  
  
"It's unseasonably cold today," said Fingolfin, sniffing the air. "I do think it may freeze overnight."  
  
But Fingon shook his head. "It's the middle of summer. It only feels cold because we've grown accustomed to heat. And you're all soaking wet."  
  
"And it's no use complaining about the weather when we're stuck out in it either way," said Finrod. "Please, may we go now?"  
  
Fingon nodded heartily. "I agree. I am most eager to return home." He paused to untie his horse from the hitch and pull himself up onto its back. Then, leaning over toward Finrod, he added in a loud whisper; "My Vanyarin boy is waiting."  
  
It was difficult to tell, between the rushing wind and the beat of the horse's hooves on the muddy road, but he was almost certain he heard Finrod shout angrily after him as he galloped away.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Glorfindel was almost relieved when Fingon stumbled through the bedroom door, soaking wet and splattered with mud. Waiting for him to return was like waiting for some impending punishment, as if he were back in Valmar and his grandfather might burst in any minute with a switch to thrash him. At least now the dreaded wait was over. He could face his trial and whatever it brought.  
  
"Well the rain has come," Fingon said.  
  
"I know," said Glorfindel. He had heard it. It started as a spattering of drops against the window, and quickly grew into a howling storm. The sound of it chilled him more than the actual cold. He sat now on the bear fur by the fire, wrapped in a thick quilt.  
  
Without further words, Fingon began to undress. He pulled off his boots and cape and clothes, and left them in a wet pile on the floor. Naked, he lay down on the bearskin rug at Glorfindel's side, head resting on his arms. "I am colder than a stone on the Helcaraxë," he groaned. "My arse hurts from bumping around on the back of a bloody horse all day, and I nearly broke my neck tripping over one of Ta's wretched ornamental hedges. Luckily I fell into another hedge, not the brick walkway..."  
  
Glorfindel noted that Fingon had a few leaves and a small twig in his wet hair, but said nothing.  
  
"Honestly, Laurefindil, I think this has been the worst day of my life."  
  
"I'm sorry," said Glorfindel. He did not know what else to say.  
  
Fingon groaned again and stretched his shoulders. "Actually, that's not true. The worst day of my life was when Turukáno was born. But today was nearly as vexing."  
  
"Turukáno?"  
  
"My brother," said Fingon. "With any luck, you'll never have to meet him. He is very like Findaráto, only tries to act more like Ta."  
  
Privately, Glorfindel thought he would in fact like to meet Fingon's brother, if he were like Finrod and unlike Fingon.  
  
"He lives on the coast to the west," Fingon continued. "At a place called Vinyamar. Has his own little kingdom there."  
  
Glorfindel gave a weak nod. "Oh."  
  
Smiling slyly, Fingon rolled over to look at him. "Still not very talkative, are you?"  
  
"No." He looked hard at the fire, carefully refusing to see any part of Fingon's naked body.  
  
"Well I insist you tell me about your day," Fingon said. "What did you do while I was gone?"  
  
"I tidied everything," said Glorfindel. "All the clothes and books and things, as you said."  
  
Fingon looked around the room, nodding in approval. "I see you did. And did you find my writing books easily enough?"  
  
"Yes," said Glorfindel, then corrected himself; "At least I think so."  
  
"Get the newest one for me," said Fingon, "and a pen and ink. Oh, and a pillow."  
  
As soon as Glorfindel stood, Fingon took up the quilt that fell to the floor and pulled it around himself. A cheeky grin crossed his face, as if daring Glorfindel to reprimand him for stealing the blanket. But all Glorfindel said was, "Would you like me to get you another quilt as well?"  
  
"No, thank you," Fingon said politely. "I like this one. But I'll share it with you."  
  
Glorfindel felt the back of his neck tense. "I'm no longer cold."  
  
"Pity," said Fingon. He watched carefully as Glorfindel took his time collecting a pillow under one arm and the top book under the other, filling the ink tray's water reserve with one hand and carrying the pen and ink stick in the other. He seemed to perform the tasks perfectly so that they took as much time and effort as possible.  
  
He gave Fingon the pen and ink first, then the ink tray, then the book. He held out the pillow, but Fingon, grinning in amusement as he flipped through the book's pages, only brushed it aside.  
  
"Laurefindil," Fingon asked, "do you know the difference between letters and numbers?"  
  
"Of course," Glorfindel said. He was not stupid. Of course he knew.  
  
"Tell me?"  
  
"Letters are used for speaking and numbers are used for counting."  
  
Fingon nodded. "Very good. Now do you know the difference between what letters look like and what numbers look like?"  
  
Glorfindel considered, but had to admit, "No."  
  
Holding the thin black book out for Glorfindel to take back, Fingon smiled. "I didn't think so. This is a book of account records and ledgers."  
  
"Oh," said Glorfindel. He took the book back, feeling an uncomfortable surge of embarrassed ignorance.  
  
"I think I will have to teach you how to read," Fingon said, "and write. Ta thinks servants are better off left illiterate, keeps them from getting into too much trouble or something, but I think it would be far more useful if you could write letters for me and keep inventories. And find the proper books when asked. Pass me that ledger again."  
  
He took the book from Glorfindel's hands and flipped to one of the blank pages at the back. Then, after mixing the water into thin ink, he took his pen and wrote three letters down the middle of the paper: ND, R and S. Glorfindel recognised them from the only word he knew how to write: his name.  
  
"These three letters you know already," said Fingon, "so we'll start here. The first one I've written is 'ando', which makes the ND sound. It is the second letter in the tengwar series. The first is 'tinco', which makes the T sound. It looks like this." He drew the T tengwa in front of the ND. It looked the same, only had one crescent instead of two.  
  
"Now these," he continued, "are the tehtar." Beneath the T and ND he drew three dots for A, one for E, a slanting slash for I, a right curl for O and a left curl for U. "Place the tehtar above the tengwar, and you make sounds." To the right of the line of tehtar, he drew tinco with three dots above it. "Do you know what that says?"  
  
"It's... T-A," Glorfindel said slowly, sounding the word in his head. "Ta."  
  
Fingon smiled at him. "Very good," he said. "And not too difficult, is it?"  
  
For what seemed to be the next hour at least, Fingon had Glorfindel write combinations of known tengwar and tehtar on the blank pages of the ledger book: ata, ondo, arë, atto, táro, undu, rista, sarat. His writing was large and sloppy in contrast with Fingon's tiny, perfect examples. But he learned quickly, at least, and was soon able to sound out and write the words on his own without hints or help. Even longer words like 'Endoressë' were no trouble, if he thought carefully and concentrated. He filled three pages with sprawling words before Fingon finally yawned and told him it was time for bed.  
  
"I'll teach you more another day," Fingon promised. "But it's quite late now, and I'm sleepy." He yawned again and stiffly stood, still wrapped in the quilt.  
  
Glorfindel was sombre as he collected up the writing supplies and returned them to the desk. He kept his back turned as Fingon climbed into bed and arranged the crumpled blankets. A hopeful thought crossed his mind that, if he wasted enough time and dawdled about by the desk, Fingon might dismiss him for the night. But after several minutes of shuffling his feet and rearranging things on the desk, Fingon's pillow-muffled voice shouted, "Hurry up, and close the curtains."  
  
He was deliberately slow in untying and arranging the curtains around the bed frame, and took just as long in stepping out of his shoes and pulling off his tunic. Fingon rolled over to watch him.  
  
"Are you trying to be slow as a slug on purpose?"  
  
"No," Glorfindel said quickly. He pulled his tunic up over his head and tossed it onto a chair, but made no move to get into bed.  
  
"A good servant should learn to hurry," Fingon said. Then, when Glorfindel still did not move, he added more bluntly, "Get into bed, will you?"  
  
Again, Glorfindel took as much time as he could. He leaned over, smoothing his pillow with one hand and carefully turning back the covers with the other. When that was done he paused a moment before smoothing the sheets. He had one knee on the edge of the bed when Fingon, making a curt, exasperated sound, grabbed both of his arms and tugged him down roughly. He yelled, and Fingon shushed him.  
  
"Be quiet, or you'll disturb my father in the next room!"  
  
Fingon sat upright, leaning across Glorfindel and effectively pinning him in place as he reached to pull the curtains fully shut. Within the space of minutes, a worrisome change had taken place. The Fingon who had sat as a teasing friend by the fire was gone, replaced by the darker, more menacing Fingon that Glorfindel remembered from his first night and morning in Eithel Sirion. It made him shudder.  
  
Fingon must have noticed, because he asked, "Are you suddenly frightened of me again, now that we are alone in the dark?"  
  
"Yes," Glorfindel whispered. This Fingon was frightening enough to make him want to tell the truth.  
  
"Did I not say I would not harm you?"  
  
"Yes," Glorfindel whispered again.  
  
"Do you not believe me?" Fingon asked.  
  
"I don't know," said Glorfindel. A hand that he could barely see within the blackness of the bed curtains reached up to stroke his cheek. Fingertips grazed his jaw. For a slight second, he felt a breath meet his own before Fingon's lips touched his.  
  
"I will not harm you," Fingon whispered against Glorfindel's mouth. "I will only kiss you. Remember?"  
  
Glorfindel nodded, feeling the veil of Fingon's hair brush against his skin. "Only kiss," he repeated, so quiet it was little more than a breath. "Not so bad."  
  
"Indeed not," said Fingon. Something in his voice told Glorfindel he smiled when he spoke the words. He kissed again.  
  
Glorfindel lay still and kept his eyes closed. A voluntary dark was better than straining to see. He thought of Oropher, who was almost certainly at that moment in the next room, in the next bed. Oropher, who would not feel so afraid. There was no need to fear. No need for shame. No need to feel anything. He needed only to endure.  
  
Cautiously, he parted his lips, and returned the kiss. This time he could feel Fingon's smile.  
  
"You are a good boy," Fingon murmured.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Finrod left the next morning, to the surprise of everyone. Fingolfin in particular insisted that a three-nights' stay was hardly worth the journey from Tol Sirion, but Finrod's mind was set. Artanis left with him by default, as it was hardly proper for a lady to travel on her own. From a tower window, Glorfindel watched their escort ride away down the south road. A hard lump was in his throat and his chest felt as if it were being crushed in a vice. It was the same feeling he had suffered as he walked away from Amma's house in Valmar for the last time.  
  
From a first-floor window, Fingon watched the same scene, though with hardly the same reaction. He felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his mind. With Finrod gone, there was no longer any need to worry about Glorfindel's ring, and no need to worry about Finrod overhearing a key clue and putting two and two together. One close call was all that would be needed to cause no end of trouble. He had more than enough of that as it was.  
  
With an irritated sigh, he turned toward his father and crumpled the little note he held in his hand. "This is going to be another one of those days," he said.  
  
"Mm-hmm," said Fingolfin. He was kneeling on the floor next to his largest jade tree, trying to find new rooted plants growing amid the clutter of fallen leaves in the pot.  
  
"I thought yesterday was bad, but today has only just started and already it's looking far worse. Findaráto is likely never going to speak to me again-"  
  
"Which is your own fault," Fingolfin interrupted.  
  
Fingon carried on as if he hadn't heard. "...and Lailaniel thinks I want to marry her." He tossed the crumpled note down on a table and scowled at it.  
  
Fingolfin, suddenly genuinely interested, looked up. "Does she want to marry you?" he asked.  
  
"I assume so," said Fingon. "I mean, that's more or less what her letter says. More and more what her letter says, really. She explains herself far too vividly." He suppressed another scowl.  
  
"Well," Fingolfin said, brushing his hands on his sleeves as he stood. "If you want my advice-"  
  
"I don't."  
  
"Then you should not have said anything," said Fingolfin. "Complaining is an automatic opening for advice-giving. So if you want my advice, I'd marry her now before she changes her mind. She is probably the only lady in the entire realm who'd be willing to put up with you for more than a day. I think you should grasp this rare opportunity."  
  
"She is my *cousin*!" Fingon hissed.  
  
"Then I should think she is your ideal match," Fingolfin said brightly.  
  
Fingon rolled his eyes. "Oh you are very funny, Ta. Very amusing. In fact, I think you missed your calling in life by becoming a king rather than a jester. Ha ha."  
  
"Disregard me if you wish, Findekáno, but I still think you should carefully consider her proposal."  
  
"There is nothing to consider!" Fingon shouted. "I don't want to get married, and that's that!"  
  
Fingolfin only shrugged and knelt back down beside his plants. "It is your own choice," he admitted, and then added quietly to himself; "And a lucky one at that, as you'll never have to know the burden of children..."  
  
"What did you say?" Fingon snapped.  
  
"I said pass me my clippers; I need to prune this side down a bit."  
  
Fingon sniffed. "I am not your servant."  
  
"You have made that exceedingly clear," said Fingolfin.  
  
With more force than he intended, Fingon kicked a nearby chair. It skidded and toppled. Fingolfin hardly blinked at the noise, which in turn annoyed Fingon further. "I am going to my room," he said. "I am going to drink an entire bottle of wine and forget about what a terrible day this is."  
  
Fingolfin nodded absently. "That sounds lovely."  
  
"You're not listening to me."  
  
"No, I'm not," Fingolfin agreed.  
  
"I could be saying something very relevant and heart-rending right now and you'd not even notice. So infatuated with your gardening!"  
  
"That's right." He pinched a silvery, shrivelled leaf.  
  
"Oh you're hopeless," Fingon growled. "I really am going to my room to drink wine. I'll see you at supper." He stalked from the room with a sulking frown, pausing only at the door to throw his father an evil look. Fingolfin, with a strand of his hair tangled in a jade tree branch, failed to notice.  
  
"Clippers," Fingolfin said. He held out his left hand toward his Sindarin boy, who stood a few feet back.  
  
Oropher handed over the clippers without even really paying attention. A dreamy look was on his face, and his mind was elsewhere. He stared out the window with the smile of the blissfully engaged. He had understood nineteen words of the Quenya conversation.

* * *

_This story arc is continued in 'Dream a Bitter Style'._


End file.
